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relaxed his grip on Azimoolah’s lean neck, not as a consequence of Alec Forsyth’s exclamation, but because he and his captive had crossed the threshold of the French window—gone “off,” in fact, from the stage on which he had been playing a little comedy for the benefit of an invisible audience. Forsyth guessed at once that the pulley-hauley business on the terrace had only been a sham, from the half-playful push with which his uncle released the now passive Indian, and also from the more than half-contemptuous glance flung at himself.

The next moment the other party to the tussle on the terrace elucidated the matter by walking up to the window instead of running away. It was the Duke himself, outwardly calm, but somewhat disheveled by the fray, and looking very sleepy. Entering the room he gave Forsyth’s hand an affectionate squeeze, and turned to secure the window.