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 broken by Forsyth as the cab turned into Piccadilly. The short drive was nearly over, but before the cab stopped he contrived to describe briefly his chance meeting with the Duke, on the day of the latter’s arrival in England, at the Hotel Cecil, and with an effort of memory he recalled the name of the man—Clinton Ziegler—whom the Duke had been to see.

“I dare say it’s not important, but it just occurred to me that I had better mention it while there was an opportunity,” he concluded, stealing a sidelong glance at his uncle’s face, which, as usual, was illegible. But a movement of the General’s well-gloved right hand in the direction of his left shirt-cuff, coupled with the gleam of a gold pencil-case, suggested that the name of Mr. Clinton Ziegler had been deemed worthy of record.

They were admitted to the ducal residence by Prince, whose dignity barely enabled him to stifle the inward curiosity with which he was devoured. In common with the other servants, he had not been told of the midnight alarm, and his orders to put the house practically into a state of siege had naturally mystified him. The damage to the bedroom door was not visible except under close examination, and Sybil