to you both—and to the young lady, too,” he added with a little bow.
“Nothing to thank me for,” Patricia remarked with a slight yawn. “I have been rather in the way.”
“Fancy, the bottom of the avenue here!” the Count repeated. “Really! We’ll say nothing about the freight but I think that I ought to pay something towards the Customs. What do you think, Mr. Blute?”
“Go to hell!”
The Count looked at the speaker gravely.
“Mr. Blute,” he remonstrated, “there is a young lady present. However, as it seems to irritate you I will make no more comments upon this dismal failure of yours. Under the circumstances perhaps it was to be expected. There is one question, however, I would like to ask. What has become of the guard you brought with you whose instructions were to remain with the caskets in the luggage van?”
“They are still guarding our property,” Blute replied. “They will go on doing that, you know, for the present.”
“I judged that they might be,” the other observed. “To tell you the truth, when Mr. Mildenhall complained just now of what he called my monologue I was perfectly truthful in my reply. I was talking to save time. It occurred to me that if those four men of yours were to march up here I should have been obliged to get rid of you two in order to have made our numbers a little more even.”
“How should you have got rid of us?” Patricia asked.
“I should have left you out of the affair entirely, young lady,” he assured her. “I have a great fancy for red hair and those queer greenish eyes that go with it sometimes. I admire a slim figure, too. That is why I could not get on so well with my own wife lately. She is just a little too much inclined to put on flesh. Don’t you think so, Mr. Mildenhall? Ah, I see you agree with me. You, young lady, as I was saying, I should reserve for a different fate, as they say in the pictures, but I should have been compelled to take Mr. Mildenhall and Mr. Blute up to the—er—rackets court. Sounds better than execution ground.”
“I’d rather go with them than listen to you talk,” she declared boldly. “I think that you are a most annoying person. Couldn’t they have done something about it while you were young?”
“My mother and father,” he assured her, “loved to listen to my childish prattle. However—finished. I’ve gained all the time I wanted. I am going to shoot you two—you, Blute, because you have already cut into one or two of my little affairs and I’m getting tired of it. If it hadn’t been for a stroke of good luck you’d have spoilt this one for me—and that would have meant,” he went on, leaning forward, “something like four million pounds. The Leopold Benjamin collection is worth quite that.”
“I believe it is,” Blute agreed.
“Well, you say you have four men guarding it down there. Now, I have eleven men who will hurry back here when they find that I am not at the rendezvous because they will know that I have taken this little affair over and they will want to know where the treasure is. In a very few minutes they will no doubt be here. They will fight it out with your four brave warriors. What do you say, my divinity with the red hair? Will you come up with me to the tower and look out through my telescope and watch the Struggle or will you come and watch a little diversion on the rackets court first?”
“I would go anywhere for the pleasure of seeing you shot!” she retorted.
“Bad manners,” he sighed.
“In any case, if ever you laid a finger on me,” she assured him, “I would shoot you before you did so if I could, but I would shoot you afterwards if I had to wait a dozen years. That’s my red hair, you see. Bad temper it means.”
Her inquisitor smiled. It was one of the most unpleasant smiles that ever parted a man’s lips.
“I foresee that there might be difficulties in my original scheme,” he remarked. “Strauss, move those two revolvers I have left upon the table. We are excellently placed here. Unless I am very much mistaken the diversion down below is about to commence.”
Charles suddenly caught up the chair by his side and held it over his head.
“I’ve had enough of this! Get out of the way, Patricia. Let the fellow shoot.”
He smashed the window in front of them into a dozen pieces. He was poised for the spring through what was left of it when Patricia’s shriek rang through the room.
“Stop, Charles!” she cried. “These aren’t his men at all!”
A lorry had turned in at the bottom of the drive and was being driven furiously towards the chateau. It was packed with soldiers in an unfamiliar uniform. Behind was another and smaller car, and then a limousine. The Count stood like a man turned to stone. He watched the approaching cavalcade with blank amazement. His upraised hand which had been clutching the revolver fell to his side. Patricia made a lightning-like dash at the weapon and snatched it from his loosened fingers. She tossed it across to Charles.
“Catch!” she cried.
Charles caught it.
CHAPTER XXVII
The actual moments that passed before the door was flung open must have been almost negligible, yet to Patricia they seemed interminable. To the man who stood now covered by his own revolver they might have been a lifetime. There was no doubt but that it was not so much cowardice as blank and complete astonishment which robbed him temporarily of the power of speech or movement. He only recovered himself when he heard the babel of voices in the hall and found the room invaded. An officer in field-grey uniform crossed the threshold. A sergeant and a dozen privates pressed after him. Then for the first time the Count found his voice.
“Who the mischief are you?” he demanded.
“Major Huber—Swiss Infantry,” was the prompt reply. “Arrest that man, sergeant!”
The sergeant and two privates seized hold of the Count just a little too late. He was recovering himself. He sent the first private sprawling. His place was taken by another, however. All the time Charles’s gun was perfectly steady.
“I can shoot him if you give the word,” he declared.
“So could I,” the officer, who had withdrawn his revolver from its holster, replied. “My job is to arrest him, though.”
The Count was himself again but a few seconds too late. The first private was still on the floor, the sergeant, who had staggered back after a fierce blow on the cheek, had recovered himself and was holding his prisoner’s arm. Two other privates obeyed the word of command. At least a half-dozen men had their grip upon him. He ceased to struggle.
“What is the charge. Major?” he asked.
The officer turned towards the entrance. He made a sign to the man who was standing on duty there. The door was flung open. Beatrice von Ballinstrode, with a soldier on either side, entered.
“Baroness,” the Major said, “are you able to identify this man?”
She advanced into the full light of the room. Charles very nearly dropped his revolver. She was probably the calmest person there. She looked him in the face, then turned back to the Major.
“Certainly,” she answered. “I was unfortunately married to him eighteen years ago under the name of Schrafft—Paul Schrafft.”
“You are positively able to identify him, Baroness?”
“Absolutely,” she said.
“The charge is, then,” the Major said, “that you have been for fifteen years, Paul Schrafft, a deserter from the Swiss Army. Have you anything to say about that?”
“It