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 for the man who had sought his life by a means so foul—and found therein only death for himself.

It was with an effort as of rousing from a stupor that O'Rourke found himself again before the door of that room wherein he had met and left Monsieur le Duc, Victor de Grandlieu.

How he had managed to find it he did not know. His mind was obsessed with a vision of De Brissac as he had last seen him—toppling backward to his death. He seemed to have been thinking of nothing else for a very long period of time. And it was surprising, to say the least, to realize that, during that train of thought, he had unconsciously threaded his way back though the halls of Castle Grandlieu to this particular room.

He paused, leaning dazedly against the wall, and passed his hand across his eyes in an endeavor to collect his thoughts, to marshal them into some form at least resembling coherency.

After a bit he discovered that he was listening—listening intently for some sound within that silent hall. There was none, except perhaps the crackling of the logs in the great fireplace, as they spat, and sputtered, and crumbled to ash in the flames.

Why was he there? Why was he not attempting to force his way out of the castle? Or why was he not thinking of Madame la Princesse?

At once he understood that there was an account to be balanced with Monsieur the Duke—an account, it was true, of short standing, but none the less demanding an immediate settlement.

He turned the knob, pushed open the door and quietly entered.