Then Cartoner
spoke, quietly and collectedly. His nerve was so steady that he had
taken time to reflect as to which tongue to make use of. For all had
disadvantages, but silence meant death.
"This near fore-shoe," he said in French, turning to his horse, "is
nearly off. It has been loose all the way from Wilanow. This is a
foundry, is it not? There must be a hammer and some nails about."
Martin gave a sort of gasp of relief. For a moment he had thought there
was no loop-hole.
Cartoner looked towards the door, and the light fell full upon his
patient, thoughtful face. The faces of the men standing in a half-circle
in front of him were in the dark.
"Good! He's a brave man!" muttered the man who had spoken in Martin's
ear. It was Kosmaroff. And he stepped back a pace.
"Yes," said Martin, hastily, "this is a foundry. I can get you a
hammer."
His right hand was opening and shutting convulsively. Cartoner glanced
at it, and Martin put it behind his back. He was rather breathless, and
he was angrily wishing that he had the Englishman's nerve.
"You might tell these men," he said, in French, "of my mishap; perhaps
one of them can put it right, and I can get along home.
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