THE THIRTY-NINE STEPS
ing, with my hands on the old boy's throat, such a time as a man might take to descend those steps to the sea.
Suddenly my prisoner broke from me and flung himself on the wall. There was a click as if a lever had been pulled. Then came a low rumbling far, far below the ground, and through the window I saw a cloud of chalky dust pouring out of the shaft of the stairway
Some one switched on the light.
The old man was looking at me with blazing eyes.
"He is safe!" he cried. "You cannot follow him in time. He is gone. He has triumphed! Der Schwarzestein ist in der Siegeskrone."
There was more in those eyes than any common triumph. They had been hooded like a bird of prey, and now they flamed with a hawk's pride. A white fanatic heat burned in them, and I realised for the first time the terrible thing I had been up against. This man was more than a spy; in his foul way he had been a patriot.
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