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 shut the door. His object must have been to prevent his voice penetrating into the house, for he croaked out to the Frenchwoman by the window the petulant order:

“Tell Benzon to hurry.”

The maid, relaxing the venomous glare with which she was regarding Beaumanoir, put out her head and obeyed. A renewal of the rustling and the sound of heavy breathing told her that her request had been heard, and drew a harsh laugh from Ziegler. Fixing the Duke with a cruel gaze, he remarked calmly, in his thin falsetto:

“The champion safe-cracksman of America will be here in a moment. Your Grace will have the opportunity of seeing a very pretty piece of work if you care to remain till I have exchanged this package for the one inside. You are not going to be fool enough to use that pistol and give yourself away at this stage, and if you were, my friend Benzon would be equal to the occasion.” And holding up the parcel of tissue paper which he had received from Forsyth in the crypt, he shook it mockingly at the Duke.

But in so doing he reckoned literally without his host. With a spring that wrenched his