“Do you call that an excuse for a murder?” I exclaimed.  “You cold-blooded villain!”

“I don’t make excuses.”  His voice was hard and arrogant.  “I am calling the matter to your notice as a kind warning, Mr. Bayne.  You said a little while ago that to see a woman gagged and bound distressed you.  Well, unless I have those papers within five minutes, you will see something worse than that!”

At the moment what I saw was red.  There was something beating in my throat, choking me; I knew neither myself nor the primitive impulses I felt.

“If you lay a finger on Miss Falconer,” I heard myself saying slowly, “I swear I’ll kill you.”

Then through the crimson mist that enveloped me I saw Blenheim laugh.

“Come, Mr. Bayne,” he taunted me, “remember our friend Schwartzmann.  This is your business, Miss Falconer, I take it.  What are you going to do?”

The girl flung her head back, and her eyes blazed as she answered him.

“You can torture me,” she said scornfully.  “You can kill me.  But I will never give you the papers; you may be sure of that.”

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE DARK

I thought of a number of things in the ensuing thirty seconds, but they all narrowed down swiftly to a mere thankfulness that I had been born.  Suppose I hadn’t; or suppose I had not happened to stop at the St. Ives Hotel and sail on the Re d’Italia; or that I had remained in Rome with Jack Herriott instead of hurrying on to Paris; or had let my quest of the girl end in the rue St.-Dominique instead of trailing her to Bleau.  If one of these links had been omitted, the chain of circumstance would have been broken, and Miss Falconer would have sat here confronting these four men alone.

It was extremely hard for me to believe that the scene was genuine.  The dark hall, the one wavering, flickering candle lighting only the immediate area of our conference, the bound woman in the chair, the watchful attitude of our captors.  Mr. Schwartzmann’s ready weapon—­all were the sort of thing that does not happen to people in our prosaic day and age.  It was like an old-time romantic drama; I felt inadequate, cast for the hero.  I might have been Francois Villon, or some such Sothern-like incarnation, for all the civilized resources that I could summon.  There were no bells here to be rung for servants, no telephones to be utilized, no police station round the corner from which to commandeer prompt aid.

The most alarming feature of the affair, however, was the manner of Franz von Blenheim, which was not so much melodramatic as businesslike and hard.  At Miss Falconer’s defiance he looked her up and down quite coolly.  Then, turning in his seat, he began giving orders to his men.

“Schwartzmann,” ran the first of these, “I want you to watch this gentleman.  He will probably make some movement presently; if he does, you are to fire, and not to miss.  And you”—­he turned to the men by the door—­“pile some wood in the chimney-place and light it.  There are some sticks over yonder,—­but if you don’t find enough, break up a chair.  Then when you get a good blaze, heat me one of the fire-irons.  Heat it red-hot.  And be quick!  We are wasting time!”