Would the clock never strike?

“I tell you frankly, Herr Doktor,” I said in a voice that trembled with anxiety, “I cannot leave the Countess unprotected whilst we travel together to the hiding-places of the document.  I only feel sure of her safety whilst she is near me....”

Clubfoot bent his brows at me.

“What do you suggest then?” he said very sternly.

“You go and recover the two halves at the places I indicate,” I stammered out, “and ... and ...”

A faint whirr and the silver chime rang out twice.

Half an hour more!

How still the house was!  I could hear the clock ticking—­no, that thudding must be my heart.  My wits failed me, my mind had become a blank, my throat was dry with fear.

“I’ve wasted an hour and a half over you, young man,” said Clubfoot suddenly, “and it’s time that this conversation was brought to a close.  I warn you again that I am not to be trifled with.  The situation is perfectly clear:  it rests with you whether the Countess Rachwitz goes free or is court-martialled this afternoon at Cleves and shot this evening.  Your suggestion is absurd.  I’ll be reasonable with you.  We will both stay here.  I will wire for the two portions of the letter to be fetched at the places you indicate, and as soon as I hold the entire letter in my hands the Countess will be driven to the frontier.  I will allow her butler here to accompany her and he can return and assure you that she is in safety.”

He stretched out his hand and pulled a block of telegraph forms towards him.

“Where shall we find the two halves?” he said.

“One is in Holland,” I murmured.

He looked up quickly.

“If you dare to play me false....”

He broke off when he saw my face.

The room was going round with me.  My hands felt cold as ice.  I was struggling for the mastery over myself, but I felt my body swaying.

“Ah!” exclaimed Clubfoot musingly, “that would be Semlin’s half....  I might have known....  Well, never mind, Schmalz can take my car and fetch it.  He can be back by to-morrow.  Where is he to go?”

“The other half is in Berlin,” I said desperately.  My voice sounded to me like a third person speaking.

“That’s simpler,” replied Clubfoot.  “Ten minutes to twelve now ... if I wire at once, that half should be here by midnight....  I’ll get the message off immediately....”

He looked up at me, pencil in hand.

It was the end.  I had kept faith with Francis to the limit of my powers, but now my resistance was broken.  He had failed me ... not me, but Monica, rather....  I could not save her now.  Like some nightmare film, the crowded hours of the past few weeks flashed past my eyes, a jostling procession of figures—­Semlin with his blue lips and livid face, Schratt with her bejewelled hands, the Jew Kore, Haase with his bullet head, Francis, sadly musing on the cafe verandah ... and Monica, all in white, as I saw her that night at the Esplanade ... my thoughts always came back to her, a white and pitiful figure in some dusty courtyard at lamplight facing a row of levelled rifles....