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 him then, and welcome, if he still thought it worth while, though the chief of the organization was not, he imagined, the sort of person to waste time and energy on a purely sentimental revenge. If Ziegler carried on the feud after the bonds were safe from him it would be, as before, to secure silence about the attempt, and he could fling no stigma on the family name without divulging details that would incriminate his gang. And the family name was all that mattered.

Beaumanoir had just rounded off his forecast in this satisfactory manner when he was suddenly startled back into the present by a faint sound far down the corridor on which the muniment room abutted. He knew perfectly well what the sound was—the “scroop” of the spring-driven swivel-roller that automatically closed a baize door shutting off the servants’ premises. He had half risen from his chair when another sound—the tinkle of a pebble cast against the window from outside—distracted his attention; but disregarding it in favor of the more pressing emergency, he made haste towards the door of the room.

The room was at the extreme end of the corridor, looking along it lengthwise, and it