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 to the last; but before going he had managed to snatch a comprehensive glance round the room. Forsyth waited on the landing until his steps had died away, and then went back into his room, barring the door as before.

“It’s all right,” he said, going to the folding doors. “Only some chap who had mistaken’ the address.”

“Not much mistake there,” replied the Duke, outwardly calm, but gone very white. “I caught a peep of him. He’s a Johnny who shadowed me over from America, and never left me till just before I met you at the Cecil. He called himself Marker, and—and he’s in this business, Alec.”

“He didn’t look very formidable. Why, you could lick the thread-paper little skimp with one hand,” said Forsyth, beginning to wonder if his friend’s mind were unhinged. It was not like the once gay hussar Charley Hanbury—intrepid horseman, champion boxer, and good all-round athlete—to funk a miserable wisp such as that!

“He is only the spy, I expect—sent to find out if I was here,” replied Beaumanoir, passing a weary hand over his eyes.

Moved by a sudden impulse, Forsyth went