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Those who came by way of the sewer had performed ablutions in the queer toilet room that once had been a secret vault for the storing of feudal plunder. What air there was came from the narrow ventilator that burrowed its ways up to the shop of William Spantz, or through the chimney-hole in the ceiling. Olga Platanova sat far down the side, a moody, inscrutable expression in her dark eyes.
King knew that she stood between her companions and the door. "You are not to touch him! Do you hear me, Peter Brutus? All of you?" There followed the silence of stupefaction, broken at last by a voice which he recognised as that of old man Spantz. "Olga! Stand aside!" "No! You shall not torture him. I have said he is no spy. I still say it. He knows nothing of the police and their plans.
But," with a shrug of his thin shoulders, "the price of antiquities has gone up materially since the Americans began to come. They don't want a thing if it is cheap." "I'll give you a hundred dollars for it, Mr. er " he looked at the sign on the open door "Mr. Spantz." "Good day, sir." The old man was bowing him out of the shop. King was amused. "Let's talk it over.
The brief conversation which followed was in a tongue unknown to King. "My niece will keep shop, sir, while I am out," Spantz explained, taking his hat from a peg behind the door. Truxton could scarcely restrain a smile as he glanced over his queer little old guest. He looked eighty but was as sprightly as a man of forty. A fine companion for a youth of twenty-six in search of adventure!
He was compelled to marry a scrawny little duchess, and Olga was warned that if she attempted to entice him away from his wife she would be punished. She did not attempt it, because she is a virtuous girl of that I am sure. But she hates them all oh, how she hates them! Her uncle, Spantz, offered her a home. She came here a month ago, broken-spirited and sick.
I'm here for the sword." The old man glared at him in unmistakable displeasure. Truxton began counting out his money. The customer, a swarthy fellow, passed out of the door, turning to glance intently at the young man. A meaning look and a sly nod passed between him and Spantz.
"It is usually the duty of our friend Julius to feed me," observed Truxton to his fellow-prisoner. "I dare say he won't mind if you relieve him of the task." "She can feed you if she likes," growled Julius. "Julius?" queried the girl from the Castle, peering at the man. "Not Julius Spantz, of the armoury?" "The same," said Truxton. Julius laughed awkwardly and withdrew.
He says she is not to be frightened to death. Women are afraid of the dark and strange dogs. Let there be light," scoffed Peter Brutus, spitting toward King. "I'll get you for that some day," grated the American, white with anger. Peter hesitated, then spat again and laughed loudly. "Enough!" commanded William Spantz. "We are not children."
The steely glitter that leaped into the armourer's eyes at this second reference to his niece disappeared as quickly as it came; somehow it left behind the impression that he knew how to wield the deadly blades he wrought. "I'd like to hear more about her," murmured Mr. King. "Anything to pass the time away, Mr. Spantz.
Taking his position near the girl, who was crouching in real dismay, he leaned against the wall, his hands behind him, every muscle strained and taut. The door opened and Julius Spantz, bewhiskered and awkward, entered. He wore a raincoat and storm hat, and carried a rope in one of his hands. He stopped just inside the door to survey the picture.
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