I merely wanted to understand it." Mr. Grimm pulled a chair
up against the door and sat down, crossing his legs. On his knees rested
the barrel of a revolver, glittering, fascinating, in the semi-darkness.
"Now, gentlemen," and he glanced at his watch, "it's twenty-one minutes
of three o'clock. At three that mine will explode. We will all be in the
room when it happens, unless his Highness sees fit to destroy the
compact."
Eyes sought eyes, and the prince removed his mask with a sudden gesture.
His face was bloodless.
"If any man," and Mr. Grimm gave Miss Thorne a quick glance, "I should
say, _any person_, attempts to leave this room I _know_ he will die; and
there's a bare chance that the percussion cap will fail to work. I can
account for six of you, if there is a rush."
"But, man, if that mine explodes we shall all be killed--blown to
pieces!" burst from one of the cowled figures.
"If the percussion cap works," supplemented Mr. Grimm.
Mingled emotions struggled in the flushed face of Isabel as she studied
Mr. Grimm's impassive countenance.
"I have never disappointed you yet, Miss Thorne," he remarked as if it
were an explanation.
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