Page:Gibbs--The yellow dove.djvu/293



DO loomed against the light and the uniform he wore seemed to give the projecting weapon a new significance. He was not Udo, the kinsman and companion who had so often shared this refuge with Hammersley in the hunting days. He was Germany. Hammersley could never remember the time when the muzzle of a weapon had seemed so large. It was much better to sit without moving, and Udo’s quick instructions were not wasted.

“Don’t move, Cyril,” he said coolly in German. “Up with your hands! So. Now get up, leaving your belt where it is, and sit on the stool yonder. Quickly! I will shoot—to kill.”

Hammersley read in his expression a determination to put the threat into practice and, watching narrowly, silently obeyed. Von Winden, still covering him carefully, picked up the belt and transferred Lindberg’s pistol to his own holster. He was a dead shot with any firearm, as Hammersley knew, and his own chances at three paces even in a rush were small. It was decidedly a case for discretion.

“I suppose there’s nothing to be said,” Hammersley muttered. “You outguessed me, Udo.” And then, to gain a moment of time, “I thought that your memory might be quite good enough to forget the Thorwald.” Von Winden frowned down the barrel of the automatic.

“It is too much to expect even from me,” he said