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.
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