‘Silence,’ hissed a voice in French. Of his own certain knowledge he could tell them that. “You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. His looks were fixed on his old benefactor. The white cloth was instantly dyed with crimson; but, regardless of this, Jonathan continued his murderous assault. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. Kneebone, who was on the point of departing. But you belong to me—and I want you. I hope you have learned your lesson now and come to see—come to realize—how things are. .
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