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Updated: June 12, 2025
"We will take him to his own place it is near and coax the papers out of him; then we'll find a precipice and toss him over. It is a simple matter." Zmai handed Chauvenet the revolver he had taken from the silent man on the horse. "I am ready," he reported. "Go ahead; we follow;" and they started toward the bungalow, Zmai riding beside the captive and holding fast to the led-horse.
"Come naturally quite so!" and Chauvenet twisted his mustache with an air of immense satisfaction. "But the genial art of assassination there's a business that requires a calculating hand, my dear Monsieur Chauvenet!" Chauvenet's hand went again to his lip. "To be sure!" he ejaculated with zest. "But alone alone one can do little.
"I was within a few months of his age, and I had a little brush with Chauvenet and Durand in Geneva in which they captured my cigarette case it had belonged to Frederick, and the Archduke gave it to me and my troubles began.
Chauvenet, watching the silent rider, said aloud, speaking in German, so that Zmai understood: "It is in the blood; he is like a king." But they could not hear the words that John Armitage kept saying over and over again as he crossed the field: "He bade me do something for Austria for Austria!" "He is brave, but he is a great fool. When he turns his horse we will fire on him," said Zmai.
It was Claiborne who freed Durand from the dead horse, which had received the shots fired at Oscar the moment he rose at the wall. The fight was quite knocked out of the conspirator, and he swore under his breath, cursing the unconscious Chauvenet and the missing Zmai and the ill fortune of the fight. "It's all over but the shouting what's next?" demanded Claiborne.
"Is this exordium or peroration, my dear fellow?" "It is both," replied Armitage succinctly, and Chauvenet was sorry he had spoken, for Armitage stopped short in a lonely stretch of the highway and continued in a disagreeable, incisive tone: "I ran away from Washington after you told that story at Claiborne's supper-table, not because I was afraid of your accusation, but because I wanted to watch your plans a little in security.
In the twentieth century homicide was not a common practice among men she knew or was likely to know; and the feeling of culpability for her silence crossed lances with a deepening sympathy for Armitage. She had learned where he was hiding, and she smiled at the recollection of the trifling bit of strategy she had practised upon Chauvenet.
His gray felt hat was twitched to one side of his head, adding a grotesque touch to the impression of drunkenness, and he was talking aloud: "Shoot me, Mr. Chauvenet. Go on and shoot me! I am John Armitage, and I live in Montana, where real people are. Go on and shoot! Winkelried's in jail and the jig's up and the Empire and the silly King are safe. Go on and shoot, I tell you!"
Armitage, sitting on a boulder, turned his eyes wearily upon Durand, whose wrists Claiborne was knotting together with a strap. The officer spun the man around viciously. "You beast, if you address Mr. Armitage again I'll choke you!" Chauvenet, sitting up and staring dully about, was greeted ironically by Durand: "Prisoners, my dearest Jules; prisoners, do you understand?
"Shirley, I caught this man in the sheepfold. Did you ever see him before?" "I think not, Dick." "It was he that brought your horse home." "To be sure it is! I hadn't recognized him. Thank you very much;" and she smiled at Oscar. Dick frowned fiercely and referred again to the paper. "Where is Monsieur Chauvenet have you any idea?"
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