attention to himself. He paused in momentary uncertainty.

One of the men was Pagratide, transformed by anger; seemingly taller,
darker, lither. The second man stood calm, immobile, with his arms
crossed on his breast, bending an impassive glance on the other from
singularly steady eyes. His six feet of well-proportioned stature just
missed an exaggeration of soldierly bearing.

The unwavering mouth-line; level, dark brows almost meeting over
unflinching gray eyes; the uncurved nose and commanding forehead were in
concert with the clean, almost lean sweep of the jaw, in spelling force
for field or council.

"Am I a brigand, Von Ritz, to be harassed by police? Answer me--am I?"
Pagratide spoke in a tempest of anger. He halted before the other man,
his hands twitching in fury.

Von Ritz remained as motionless, apparently as mildly interested, as
though he were listening to the screaming of a parrot.

"My orders were explicit." His words fell icily. "They were the orders
of His Majesty's government. I shall obey them. I beg pardon, I shall
attempt to obey them; and thus far my attempts to serve His Majesty have
not encountered failure. I should prefer not having to call on the
ambassador--or the American secret service."

"By God! If I had a sword--" breathed Pagratide. His fury had gone
through heat to cold, and his attitude was that of a man denied the
opportunity of resenting a mortal affront.