I saw the plump
one collared, but my eyes were all for the out-of-doors, where
Franz sped on over the road towards the railed entrance to the
beach stairs. One man followed him, but he had no chance. The
gate of the stairs locked behind the fugitive, and I stood staring,
with my hands on the old boy's throat, for such a time as a man
might take to descend those steps to the sea.
Suddenly my prisoner broke from me and flung himself on the
wall. There was a click as if a lever had been pulled. Then came a
low rumbling far, far below the ground, and through the window I
saw a cloud of chalky dust pouring out of the shaft of the stairway.
Someone switched on the light.
The old man was looking at me with blazing eyes.
'He is safe,' he cried. 'You cannot follow in time ... He is
gone ... He has triumphed ... DER SCHWARZE STEIN IST IN DER
SIEGESKRONE.'
There was more in those eyes than any common triumph. They
had been hooded like a bird of prey, and now they flamed with a
hawk's pride. A white fanatic heat burned in them, and I realized
for the first time the terrible thing I had been up against. This man
was more than a spy; in his foul way he had been a patriot.
As the handcuffs clinked on his wrists I said my last word to him.
'I hope Franz will bear his triumph well. I ought to tell you that
the ARIADNE for the last hour has been in our hands.
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