"That is why. She is a young girl--nineteen. She went to school in her mother's country, Denmark. She imbibed notions there--and, later, in England among art students and others. It is the well-born who succumb most easily to nonsense once the discipline is relaxed. She has had her way in spite of my authority. Now it is time for such insubordination to cease. I wish to have my daughter back. I cannot get her. You are--American--to all intents and purposes, and you would be under no suspicion in England. Your appearance, your speech, your manners all are above suspicion. You _can_ do this. I have made up my mind concerning you, and I trust you. Will you go to England, find my daughter and bring her back to me here; or, if I am ordered elsewhere, will you escort her to my country place in Silesia which is called Rehthal?" "Suppose I do not find her? Suppose I fail?" "You will return here and report to me." "If I fail and I return here and report my failure, does that mean the execution of the gentlemen in the drawing-room yonder?" "It does." "And the destruction of Yslemont?" "Absolutely." "And--" the young man smiled--"incidentally it means my own execution, does it not?" "It does." They gazed at each other with intense interest. "Under such circumstances do you think I'll come back if I am not successful?" inquired the younger man. "I am satisfied that you will return if you say you will." "Return to face my own execution?" repeated Guild, curiously. "You believe that of me?--of a man about whom you know nothing--a man who"--his animated features suddenly darkened and he caught his breath a moment, then--"a man who considers your nation a barbarous one, your rulers barbarians, your war inexcusable, your invasion of this land the vilest example of treachery and dishonour that the world has ever witnessed--you still believe that such a man might consider himself bound to return here if unsuccessful and face one of your murdering platoons? _Do_ you?" he repeated, the slightest intonation of violence beginning to ring in the undertones of his voice. Von Reiter's dry, blond features had become greyer and more set. His light blue eyes never left the other; behind their pale, steady scrutiny he seemed to be considering every word. He drew in his breath, slowly; his very thin lips receded for a moment, then the fixed tranquillity returned.