Well, what could I do, but trot along at his heels with a mouthful of apprehension? Whatever “they” were up to, I was in for it, and in the meantime there was nothing to do but go with the tide. With my sure instinct, I knew that the “service” I was being blackmailed into was sure to-be unpleasant, and quite likely damned dangerous, but my queasy guts didn’t interfere with my logical process. I’m a realist, and it was already in my mind that in whatever lay ahead—a journey, initially, according to Rudi—some opportunity of escape must surely present itself. Unless you are actually locked up, escapes are not as difficult as many folk think; you simply bolt, seize the first available horse, and go like hell for safety—in this case probably the Austrian frontier. Or would Switzerland be better? It was farther, but Rudi and his sinister friends probably had influence in Austria. And they would not reckon on me trying a forced ride to the Swiss border….

“Oh, by the way,” says Rudi, as we left the police and he handed me into a carriage, “to a man of action like yourself it may seem that an opportunity will arise of giving me the slip. Don’t try it. I would kill you before you’d gone five yards.” And he smiled genially as he settled himself opposite me.

“You’re mighty sure of yourself,” growls I.

“With cause,” says he. “Look here.” He gave his right arm a shake, and there was a pocket pistol in his right hand. “I’m a dead shot, too.”

“Naturally,” says I, but I decided it was probably true. Anyone who keeps a pistol in his sleeve can usually use it.

“And, in all modesty, I’m probably your master with the sabre as well—or with a knife,” says Master Rudi, putting his pistol away. “So you see, it wouldn’t pay you to run for it.”

I said nothing, but my spirits sank a few notches lower. He was going to be an efficient watch-dog, rot him, the more so since he believed me to be “a man of action”. He knew enough of my reputation, no doubt, to put me down as a desperate, dangerous fellow who didn’t give a damn for risks. If he’d known me for the poltroon I was he might have been less alert.