the same time keep his flesh away. There seemed to be more protruding bones in his hands and wrists than he had ever dreamed of, and his skin was much less tough than the rope. Fierce twinges of rasping agony stabbed up his arms, but he could not allow himself to heed them.
He said: 'If you feel the same way that I do, and you'd like to take a chance, we'll have a shot at it together.'
She had begun to stare at the curious rhythmic twitching of his shoulders.
'What are you doing?'
The sweat was standing out in beads on his forehead although she could not see that; and his teeth were clamped together in stubborn endurance of the torture that he was inflicting on himself while he tore the flesh off his bones as he fought to fray off the strands of hemp that tied his hands. But his heart was blazing with a savage exaltation that partly deadened pain.
He said through his clenched teeth and rigid lips: 'Never mind. We haven't got much longer. When they fetch us out again, I'm going to try to break loose. You give way to all your impulses—scream your head off, and fight as hard as you can to break away. Anything to keep their attention occupied. Leave the rest to me. I expect all we'll get will be two bellyfulls of bullets, but I may be able, to kill Luker and Marteau first.'
She was quite still for a moment, and then she said in a strange strained voice: 'Okay. I'll do everything I can.'
He laid his face against hers as she leaned towards him, and went on sawing his wrists against the wall in a grim fury of torment. He spoke only once more.
'I'm sorry about this, Valerie,' he said. 'We might have had such a lot of fun.'
Five minutes was no time at all. It seemed to be only a few moments before the big iron key rattled in the lock and the door opened again.
Bravache bowed in the doorway, his teeth shining in the set sneering grin that sat so naturally on his cold haughty face.
'You are ready?' he inquired.
It was a second or two before Lady Valerie got up.
The Saint rose to his feet after her. For all that he had suffered, the cords still held his wrists. But he had his strength, saved and stored up through all the hours when it had been useless to struggle: he had always had the strength of two or three ordinary men, and at this time when he had need of it all for one supreme effort his own will might make it greater. If only that was enough. . . . Now that the last sands were trickling away he was conscious of a curious inward peace, a great stillness, an utter carelessness in which his nerves were like threads of ice.
He let the girl go first, and followed her back into the big barren room from which they had been taken.
Luker and Marteau still sat at the long table under the flag. Marteau was drawing nervous figures on the bare wood with a stub of pencil, but Luker was outwardly untouched by anxiety. Simon and Valerie were marched up in front of the table, and the escort of Sons of France re-formed around them; and Luker looked up at them with nothing but confidence on his square stony features.
'Have you made up your minds?'
'Yes,' answered the Saint.
'Well?'
'We made up our minds,' said the Saint unhurriedly,'that besides the barrel organ you might do well with ice cream as a side line.'
Luker's expression did not change. It only became glassy and lifeless, as if it had been frozen into place.
He moved one of his hands
