Mr. Dunster was obviously plentifully supplied with either courage or bravado, for he only laughed.

“Then you had better make up your mind at once, Mr. Fentolin, how soon that word is to be spoken, or you may lose your money,” he remarked.

Mr. Fentolin sat very quietly in his chair.

“You mean, then,” he asked, “that you do not intend to humour me in this little matter?”

“I do not intend,” Mr. Dunster assured him, “to part with that word to you or to any one else in the the world.  When my message has been presented to the person to whom it has been addressed, when my trust is discharged, then and then only shall I send that cablegram.  That moment can only arrive at the end of my journey.”

Mr. Fentolin leaned now a little forward in his chair.  His face was still smooth and expressionless, but there was a queer sort of meaning in his words.

“The end of your journey,” he said grimly, “may be nearer than you think.”

“If I am not heard of in The Hague to-morrow at the latest,” Mr. Dunster pointed out, “remember that before many more hours have passed, I shall be searched for, even to the far corners of the earth.”

“Let me assure you,” Mr. Fentolin promised serenely, “that though your friends search for you up in the skies or down in the bowels of the earth, they will not find you.  My hiding-places are not as other people’s.”

Mr. Dunster beat lightly with his square, blunt forefinger upon the table which stood by his side.

“That’s not the sort of talk I understand,” he declared curtly.  “Let us understand one another, if we can.  What is to happen to me, if I refuse to give you that word?”

Mr. Fentolin held his hand in front of his eyes, as though to shut out some unwelcome vision.

“Dear me,” he exclaimed, “how unpleasant!  Why should you force me to disclose my plans?  Be content, dear Mr. Dunster, with the knowledge of this one fact:  we cannot part with you.  I have thought it over from every point of view, and I have come to that conclusion; always presuming,” he went on, “that the knowledge of that little word of which we have spoken remains in its secret chamber of your memory.”

Mr. Dunster smoked in silence for a few minutes.

“I am very comfortable here,” he remarked.

“You delight me,” Mr. Fentolin murmured.

“Your cook,” Mr. Dunster continued, “has won my heartfelt appreciation.  Your cigars and wines are fit for any nobleman.  Perhaps, after all, this little rest is good for me.”

Mr. Fentolin listened attentively.

“Do not forget,” he said, “that there is always a limit fixed, whether it be one day, two days, or three days.”

“A limit to your complacence, I presume?”

Mr. Fentolin assented.