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 Beaumanoir stood with his grip on Ziegler’s collar, “your disguise need hamper you no longer—that is, if you prefer to finish this business in your own person. Get the pull of your sex, you know.”

“Yes, I guess that wig doesn’t do justice to Cora Lestrade,” interjected Senator Sherman, and with a dexterous twirl of his wrist he jerked off the elaborate head-gear which had effectually transformed the dashing lady known as Mrs. Talmage Eglinton into a repulsive old man. But it was only when feminine instinct had prompted her with a swift application of her handkerchief to remove the purple stain that had added the semblance of disease to old age that the Duke recognized his guest.

“I do not understand,” he murmured, feebly.

And it seemed that Alec Forsyth, in spite of the part entrusted to him in the comedy of the crypt, had been ignorant of the identity of his antagonist, for a cry of astonishment escaped him. On the other hand, the demure smile that played round Sybil Hanbury’s pretty mouth betokened a closer intimacy with the foregoings of this wonderful development.