Casting a baffled glance beyond me, he scanned the gallery
door. It by no means merited my description, being heavy, solid, almost
immovable in aspect. "Well, let's have the papers!" he said, with
suspicion in his tone.
I descended in a deliberate manner, casting alert eyes about me, for,
to use an expressive idiom, I was not doing this for my health. On the
contrary I had two very definite purposes; the first, which I could
probably compass, was to save Miss Falconer from further intercourse
with Blenheim and to conceal the presence of the wounded, helpless
Firefly from his enemies; the second, surprisingly modest, was to
make the four Germans prisoners and hand them over in triumph to the
gendarmes of the nearest town, Santierre.
I was perfectly aware of the absurdity of this ambition. I lacked
the ghost of an idea of how to set about the thing. But the general
craziness of events had unhinged me. I was forming the habit of trusting
to pure luck and _vogue la galere_! I can't swear that I hadn't visions
of conquering all my adversaries in some miraculous single-handed
fashion, disarming them, and, as a final sweet touch of revenge, tying
them up in chairs, to keep Marie-Jeanne company and meditate on the
turns of fate.
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