In a carved oak chair at the head of a table sat Count Michæl. Pauline was there sitting in a chaise longue smoking a cigarette in a very long amber and gold holder. She did not turn her face from the count to the prisoner until he had stood there silent for a full minute. Then she looked at him coldly, sneeringly, and said something to Count Michæl which brought a peal of laughter from him.
It seemed to Trent that he had never seen the two on such wholly affectionate terms.
There were two doors to the room. At one stood Peter Sissek, revolver in hand. At the other old Ferencz watched in armed vigilance. On the table before the count was a .38 automatic pistol. Shades were drawn over the long narrow French windows. In a chair before one of them Hentzi sat nervous as ever in the presence of his violent employer. Before the other window was a big bronze statue of the dying Gaul. The stage was set very comfortably for all but the manacled Anthony Trent.
"You said I could have these off," Trent began, "these damned steel bangles that I've worn so long."
"It is for yourself to remove them," the count said suavely. "I am about to give you the opportunity. You see I am generous. Others would blame me for it."
"You are not generous," Trent snapped. "A coward never is."
The count's face lost some of its suavity.
"Who dares call me a coward?" he cried.
"I do," Trent returned promptly. "You are a coward. Here am I, an unarmed man among three with guns. The doors are locked and yet you keep me here handcuffed. Generous! Brave!" All his contempt was poured out as he said it.
"If I take them off will you give me your parole d'honneur to make no effort to escape?"