“That’s good,” said Julius.  “Isn’t it all panning out beautifully?  And a lovely night for the run!”

“What run?” demanded Kramenin, with a stare.

“Down to Gatehouse, sure.  I hope you’re fond of motoring?”

“What do you mean?  I refuse to go.”

“Now don’t get mad.  You must see I’m not such a kid as to leave you here.  You’d ring up your friends on that telephone first thing!  Ah!” He observed the fall on the other’s face.  “You see, you’d got it all fixed.  No, sir, you’re coming along with me.  This your bedroom next door here?  Walk right in.  Little Willie and I will come behind.  Put on a thick coat, that’s right.  Fur lined?  And you a Socialist!  Now we’re ready.  We walk downstairs and out through the hall to where my car’s waiting.  And don’t you forget I’ve got you covered every inch of the way.  I can shoot just as well through my coat pocket.  One word, or a glance even, at one of those liveried menials, and there’ll sure be a strange face in the Sulphur and Brimstone Works!”

Together they descended the stairs, and passed out to the waiting car.  The Russian was shaking with rage.  The hotel servants surrounded them.  A cry hovered on his lips, but at the last minute his nerve failed him.  The American was a man of his word.

When they reached the car, Julius breathed a sigh of relief.  The danger-zone was passed.  Fear had successfully hypnotized the man by his side.

“Get in,” he ordered.  Then as he caught the other’s sidelong glance, “No, the chauffeur won’t help you any.  Naval man.  Was on a submarine in Russia when the Revolution broke out.  A brother of his was murdered by your people.  George!”

“Yes, sir?” The chauffeur turned his head.

“This gentleman is a Russian Bolshevik.  We don’t want to shoot him, but it may be necessary.  You understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“I want to go to Gatehouse in Kent.  Know the road at all?”

“Yes, sir, it will be about an hour and a half’s run.”

“Make it an hour.  I’m in a hurry.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”  The car shot forward through the traffic.

Julius ensconced himself comfortably by the side of his victim.  He kept his hand in the pocket of his coat, but his manner was urbane to the last degree.

“There was a man I shot once in Arizona——­” he began cheerfully.

At the end of the hour’s run the unfortunate Kramenin was more dead than alive.  In succession to the anecdote of the Arizona man, there had been a tough from ’Frisco, and an episode in the Rockies.  Julius’s narrative style, if not strictly accurate, was picturesque!

Slowing down, the chauffeur called over his shoulder that they were just coming into Gatehouse.  Julius bade the Russian direct them.  His plan was to drive straight up to the house.  There Kramenin was to ask for the two girls.  Julius explained to him that Little Willie would not be tolerant of failure.  Kramenin, by this time, was as putty in the other’s hands.  The terrific pace they had come had still further unmanned him.  He had given himself up for dead at every corner.