He was up in an
instant. The room was filled with soldiers, foot soldiers of the
king, so it seemed.
"What the devil is this?" he demanded, brushing his knees and
cursing himself because he had not brought his Colt when fate
had put it almost in his hand.
"It is a banquet, young man. We were waiting for the guest of
honor."
Maurice turned to the speaker, and saw a medium-sized man with
gray hair and a frosty stubble of a mustache. He wore no
insignia of office. Indeed, as Maurice gazed from one man to the
next he saw that there were no officers; and it came to him that
these were not soldiers of the king. He was in a trap. He
thought quickly. Fitzgerald was in trouble, perhaps on his
account. Where was he?
"I do not see my friend who sprained his ankle," he said coolly.
This declaration was greeted with laughter.
"Evidently I have entered the wrong room," he continued
imperturbably. He stepped toward the door, but a burly
individual placed his back to it.
"Am I a prisoner, or the victim of a practical joke?"
"Either way," said the man with the frosty mustache.
"Why?"
"You have recently formed a dangerous acquaintance, and we
desire to aid you in breaking it.
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