But Clubfoot laid a hairy paw on his sleeve. “Let us make allowances for Major Okewood’s natural chagrin,” he counselled. “Believe me, he is full of common sense. He will presently recognize the value of being polite and . . . and obliging with us . . . otherwise”—he paused and looked amiably round the board—“otherwise we shall have to teach him manners, eh, Tarock?” “A gord round the head, with some hardt knots, tvisted vith a baionette vould be a good lesson to him,” muttered the grey-bearded man. “Don’t be hasty, Tarock,” said Grundt gently. “_Not_ Tarock, of Cracow?” exclaimed Desmond. “Why, now, isn’t that interesting? I’ve heard of you so often, and we’ve never met. Let’s see, you commanded a company once in the Deutschmeister Regiment in Vienna, didn’t you? And were cashiered for stealing the company money . . .?” Greybeard moved uneasily in his seat. “What a pity that the white-slave traffic laws interfered with your new career at Cracow!” Desmond resumed impassively. “So many of your colleagues regard them as the most unfair restriction of trade! Dear, dear! Was it five or seven years Zuchthaus they gave you?” “Herr!” thundered Tarock, springing to his feet. The fox-grin had again appeared about the thin lips of Mr. Mandelstamm. Clubfoot, too, appeared to be enjoying the scene. “Personally, I always admired your versatility as a spy,” Desmond went on, leaning back out of reach of Tarock’s threatening fist, “though the Austrians didn’t. They sacked you for double-crossing, didn’t they, Tarock? And the Russians followed suit a year later. You were too dirty even for the Okhrana to touch . . .” “Kreuzsakrament!” roared Greybeard, “I’ll have your life for that!” His chair overturned with a crash. Everybody had sprung to his feet, talking at the same time. Suddenly the door of the room burst open and three men came tumbling in. Two of them were grappling with a third, who, though gagged and bound and bleeding, was plunging wildly and uttering stifled shouts of rage. CHAPTER XI THE CONSTANTINOPLE COURIER An ear-splitting report sent them all reeling back. The air stank with the fumes of burnt cordite. Then Clubfoot’s voice went booming through the room. A great automatic was smoking in his hand. “The next shot will go through your head, Bewlay,” he roared at the prisoner who, on the report of the pistol, had momentarily ceased struggling. “Stand back there, Tarock,” he thundered. “I’ll have no brawling here. Sit down, all of you! Heinrich!” The young German appeared in the doorway. “Take Major Okewood on one side, and, if he attempts to escape, shoot him! Max, you look after Bewlay! Have you got the bags? Bring them in!”