over the door, my lad? Ah, and Holf! Yes, that's the name. Pray
ring the bell. My hands are occupied."

Rudolf's hands were indeed occupied; one held Bauer's arm, now no longer
with a friendly pressure, but with a grip of iron; in the other the
captive saw the revolver that had till now lain hidden.

"You see?" asked Rudolf pleasantly. "You must ring for me, mustn't you?
It would startle them if I roused them with a shot." A motion of the
barrel told Bauer the direction which the shot would take.

"There's no bell," said Bauer sullenly.

"Ah, then you knock?"

"I suppose so."

"In any particular way, my friend?"

"I don't know," growled Bauer.

"Nor I. Can't you guess?"

"No, I know nothing of it."

"Well, we must try. You knock, and--Listen, my lad. You must guess
right. You understand?"

"How can I guess?" asked Bauer, in an attempt at bluster.

"Indeed, I don't know," smiled Rudolf. "But I hate waiting, and if the
door is not open in two minutes, I shall arouse the good folk with a
shot. You see? You quite see, don't you?" Again the barrel's motion
pointed and explained Mr. Rassendyll's meaning.

Under this powerful persuasion Bauer yielded. He lifted his hand and
knocked on the door with his knuckles, first loudly, then very softly,
the gentler stroke being repeated five times in rapid succession.
Clearly he was expected, for without any sound of approaching feet the
chain was unfastened with a subdued rattle. Then came the noise of the
bolt being cautiously worked back into its socket. As it shot home a
chink of the door opened. At the same moment Rudolf's hand slipped from
Bauer's arm. With a swift movement he caught the fellow by the nape of
the neck and flung him violently forward into the roadway, where, losing
his footing, he fell sprawling face downwards in the mud. Rudolf threw
himself against the door: it yielded, he was inside, and in an instant
he had shut the door and driven the bolt home again, leaving Bauer in
the gutter outside. Then he turned, with his hand on the butt of his
revolver. I know that he hoped to find Rupert of Hentzau's face within a
foot of his.

Neither Rupert nor Rischenheim, nor even the old woman fronted him: a
tall, handsome, dark girl faced him, holding an oil-lamp in her hand.
He did not know her, but I could have told him that she was old Mother
Holf's youngest child, Rosa, for I had often seen her as I rode through
the town of Zenda with the king, before the