There was no time, however, for dwelling on my deficiencies.  The next half hour would be an uncommonly lively one, I felt quite sure.  I might call the thing bizarre, fantastic; I might dub it an extravaganza; the fact remained that I was shut up in this lonely spot with four entirely able-bodied Germans and must match wits with them over some affair that apparently was of international consequence; for if it had been a twopenny business, Herr von Blenheim, the star agent of the kaiser, would never have thought it worth his pains.

With all my fighting spirit rising to meet the odds against us, I cast a speculative eye over the Teutons, who had now dissolved their group.  Van Blarcom himself—­Blenheim, rather—­descended in a leisurely fashion while one of his friends, remaining on the staircase, fixed me with a look of intentness almost ominous and the other two placed themselves as if casually before the door.  They were stalwart, well set-up men, I acknowledged as I surveyed them.  Though not bad at what our French friends call la boxe, I was outnumbered.  It was obviously a case of strategy—­but of what sort?

A much defaced table, flanked with a few battered chairs, stood near me, and with a premonition that I should want two hands presently, I set my candle there.  Then I drew a chair forward and turned to the girl with outward coolness.

“Please sit down, Miss Falconer,” I invited.  I wanted time.

She inclined her head and obeyed me very quietly.  She was not afraid; I saw it with a rush of pride.  As she sat erect, her head thrown back, on gloved hand resting on the table, she was a picture of spirit and steadiness and courage.  If I had needed strength I should have found it in the fact that her eyes, oddly darkened as always when her errand was threatened did not rest on our captors, but turned toward me.

“We’ll all sit down,” Franz von Blenheim agreed most amiably.  It evidently amused him to retain the late Mr. Van Blarcom’s dialect and air.  “We can fix this business up in no time; so why not be sociable?” He strolled to a chair and sank into it and motioned me to do the same.

“Thanks,” I returned, not complying.  “If you don’t mind, I’d like first to untie that woman.  I confess to a queer sort of prejudice against seeing women bound and gagged.  In fact I feel so strongly on the subject that it might spoil our whole conference for me.”  I took a step toward the shadowy figure of Marie-Jeanne.

Blenheim did not move, but his eyes seemed to narrow and darken.

“Just leave her alone for the present.  She is too fond of shrieking—­might interrupt our argument,” he declared.  “And see here, Mr. Bayne,” he added, warned by my manner, “I want to call your attention to the gentleman on the stairs, my friend Schwartzmann.  He’s a crack shot, none better, and he has got you covered.  Hadn’t you better sit down and have a friendly chat?”