ipice before, and he
disliked the idea. Fortunately, his prisoner did not know this. Besides,
suppose he did push him over? Dead men are extremely useless about
telling things. It would, as a fact, leave matters no better than
before. Rather worse.

Half an hour.

"Come, come," said Nikky fiercely. "We are losing time." He looked
fierce, too. His swollen lip did that. And he was nervous. It occurred
to him that his prisoner, in desperation, might roll over the edge
himself, which would be most uncomfortable.

But the precipice, and Nikky's fierce lip, and other things, had got in
their work. The man on the ground stopped muttering in his patois, and
turned on Nikky eyes full of hate.

"I will tell you," he said. "And you will free me. And after that--"

"Certainly," Nikky replied equably. "You will follow me to the ends of
the earth--although that will not be necessary, because I don't intend
to go there--and finish me off." Then, sternly: "Now, where does the
letter go? I have a fancy for delivering it myself."

"If I tell you, what then?"

"This: If you tell me properly, and all goes well, I will return and
release you. If I do not return, naturally you will not be released.
And, for fear you meditate a treachery, I shall gag you and leave you,
not here, but back a short distance, in the wood we just passed. And,
because you are a brave man, and this thing may be less serious than
I think it is, I give you my word of honor that, if you advise me
correctly, I shall return and liberate you."

He was very proud of his plan. He had thought it out carefully. He had
everything to gain and nothing to lose by it--except, perhaps, his
life. The point was, that he knew he could not take a citizen of Karnia
prisoner, because too many things would follow, possibly a war.

"It's a reasonable proposition," he observed. "If I come back, you are
all right. If I do not, there are a number of disagreeable possibilities
for you."

"I have only your word."

"And I yours," said Nikky.

The chauffeur took a final glance around; as far as he could see, and a
final shuddering look at the valley of the Ar, far below. "I will tell
you," he said sullenly.

CHAPTER XII. TWO PRISONERS

Herman Spier had made his escape with the letter. He ran through
tortuous byways of the old city, under arches into courtyards, out again
by doorway set in walls, twisted, doubled like a rabbit. And all this
with no pursuit, save the pr