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 is you who identify me?” he asked, looking across the room at Beatrice.
“It is I. Do you know why I do it? I see that you do. Major, I spent the night at a little village not far from here at the chateau of my cousins. This man here, still my husband, I suppose, sent one of his company of thieves all the way there to steal my passport. He was afraid that it was my intention to interfere in a little business he was engaged upon. He was quite right, but I arrived here all the same and, I should imagine,” she continued, her eyes sweeping the room, “just in time.”
The Major saluted.
“We are obliged. Baroness,” he said.
“Is my presence required further?” she asked.
“Certainly not. Sergeant, you may remove the prisoner. Allow me to see you to your car. Baroness. Which of you gentlemen is Mr. Mildenhall?”
Charles stepped forward.
“I’m here.”
The Major smiled.
“I shall be returning directly,” he said, “for the favour of a few minutes’ conversation with you.”
There was a tramping of feet. In a moment or two the room was empty except for Patricia, Blute and Charles. Marius Blute was smoothing his hair before a mirror after a hurried glance down the avenue. Patricia had thrown herself into a chair. Her own hair was in wild disorder and she had torn her skirt in the convulsive leap forward when she had snatched the revolver from the arrested man. Charles was on his knees by her side. Nevertheless, although she was very pale, her eyes were open and she forced a smile as she felt the pressure of his fingers.
“If I could have some water,” she murmured.
“Look round the room—there’s a good fellow,” Charles asked Blute.
The latter looked round the room in vain, then he stepped out into the hall. He returned, followed by a chauffeur and a plump lady dressed in black. Charles welcomed them gladly.
“That’s you, is it. Holmes?” he exclaimed. “Thank heavens! And you, Madame Renouf!”
“We’re here, sir,” the chauffeur said, “but it’s been a funny business!”
“It has indeed,” Madame Renouf assented. “Allow me, sir.”
She poured some water from the carafe which she was carrying into a tumbler.
“The poor young lady,” she murmured sympathetically. “She’s had a nasty shock and no mistake.”
“I shall be all right in a minute,” Patricia declared.
“Tim’s gone, sir,” the chauffeur announced gloomily. “He smelt a rat, Tim did, and he let on to the Count. The Count shot him down just as you or I would brush away a fly. Thank God he’s off the premises, sir. He came here and said he’d leased the chateau from you for six months. If it hadn’t been your own voice I heard on the phone last night, sir, I should have been off to-night. They made me answer the phone and wouldn’t let me say a word on my own.”
“Plane all right?” Charles asked.
“Going like a humming bird, sir.”
“Johnson there? That’s his name, isn’t it? The pilot.”
“He’s around all right, sir, but again he isn’t, so to speak. The Count told him he might want the plane this morning. Never said a word about your coming. Johnson’s off in hiding, he is, but I can put my hand on him in a minute.”
Patricia sat up.
“I’m absolutely all right,” she announced. “Charles, do you realize what has happened?”
She threw her arms round his neck. The housekeeper glanced discreetly away.
“And me, I think,” Mr. Blute suggested.
Patricia embraced him without hesitation.
“That,” he remarked as he withdrew himself a little awkwardly, “is the first time I have kissed a lady for twelve years.”
“It’s been worth while waiting, hasn’t it, dear?” she laughed.
“Don’t you try your tricks on me!” he warned her. “Remember, you’re as good as a married woman!”
“There is nothing that could go wrong, now, is there?” she asked, a great relief shining out of her eyes.
Blute escorted her to the window.
“Our four guards are there smoking cigarettes and guarding the treasure. The Count is seated in the middle of that lorry which has just passed out through the gate, two soldiers either side of him and two behind. I never thought I’d see the end of the Three G’s crowd. Whichever way our plans lie now we are safe and when opportunity arises I shall most certainly drink the health of that brave lady who has got us out of this mess.”
“We are returning to earth again,” Charles said.
“It’s a mercy, sir,” the housekeeper declared, “because I’m hoping you’ll fancy some luncheon, even if it is late.”
There was a squeal from Patricia, various other sounds of approbation from Blute and Charles.
“The Count’s been sort of funny all this morning,” Madame Renouf remarked. “I could never get him to tell me how many to cook for but there’s enough for ten or twelve anyhow and something over if you’ve men to feed.”
“Who’s looking after my cellar here?” Charles asked.
