“Well,” he said; and the next moment, cap in hand, he was saying, “I beg your pardon. I did not expect to find any one here.”
I was not so cool. I was still a tyro so far as concerned knowing how to behave in desperate circumstances. Later on, when I was an international spy, I should have been less clumsy, I am sure. As it was, I scrambled to my feet and cried out the danger call.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, looking at me searchingly.
It was evident that he had no suspicion of our presence when making the descent. I recognized this with relief.
“For what purpose do you think I did it?” I countered. I was indeed clumsy in those days.
“I don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head. “Unless you’ve got friends about. Anyway, you’ve got some explanations to make. I don’t like the look of it. You are trespassing. This is my father’s land, and—”
But at that moment, Biedenbach, ever polite and gentle, said from behind him in a low voice, “Hands up, my young sir.”
Young Wickson put his hands up first, then turned to confront Biedenbach, who held a thirty-thirty automatic rifle on him. Wickson was imperturbable.
“Oh, ho,” he said, “a nest of revolutionists—and quite a hornet’s nest it would seem. Well, you won’t abide here long, I can tell you.”
“Maybe you’ll abide here long enough to reconsider that statement,” Biedenbach said quietly. “And in the meanwhile I must ask you to come inside with me.”
“Inside?” The young man was genuinely astonished. “Have you a catacomb here? I have heard of such things.”