I dragged him to his feet, and took my belt from round his ankles. He could hardly stand with the pain of his toes, and I had to support him.

“Now, de Gautet,” says I. “I’m going to let you go—but where, eh? That’s the point, ain’t it?”

“What do you mean?” His eyes were staring with fear. “You promised!”

“So did Bismarck—so did you. You’re a dirty creature, de Gautet; I think you need a wash.” I propelled him to the edge of the precipice, and held him for a second. “I’ll let you go, all right, you murderous cur—down there.”

He let out a shriek you could have heard in Munich, and tried to wrench free, but I held him fast and let him look, just to let him know he was really going to die. Then I said: “Gehen sie weg, de Gautet,” and gave him a push.

For an instant he tottered on the brink, trying to keep his balance, and screaming hoarsely; then he fell out and down, and I watched him turn slowly over in the air, crash onto the jutting rocks half-way down the cliff, and spin outwards, like a rag doll with his legs waving, before he vanished into the spray at the precipice foot.

It was an interesting sight. I’d killed before, of course, although never in what you might call cold blood, but I’ve never felt anything but satisfaction over the end of de Gautet. He deserved to die, if anyone ever did. He was a heartless, cruel rascal, and I’d have been lucky to come off as easily if things had been the other way round. I’m not justifying myself, either for torturing him or killing him, for I don’t need to. Both had to be done—but I’m honest enough to admit I enjoyed doing them. He was a good horseman, though.

However, his death, though first-rate in its way, solved nothing so far as my immediate comfort and safety were concerned. I was still in the very devil of a pickle, I realised, as I gazed round the empty clearing and tried to decide what to do next. It was certain that de Gautet had arranged some means of getting word quickly to Rudi and Co. to say that Flashy was a goner and all was well. How long would it be before they realised something had gone wrong? An hour or two? A day? I must assume it would be sooner rather than later—and then the hunt would be up with a vengeance, with me as the poor little fox. I had to get out of Strackenz at once—but where to?