matum was not demonstrated, for before he could do either he was taken in the rear and found himself a target. There stood the Duke in his pajamas, with a handy little Smith and Wesson not a foot from the intruder’s temples, and with his left hand significantly extended.
“Give me that pistol,” he said, sternly.
Beaumanoir was dealing with a tangible foe at last, and with a thrill of racial pride Sybil noted the light of battle in her relative’s eye. It was, therefore, more than a shock to her when the Duke, having relieved the tweed-coated lurker of his weapon, calmly added:
“Now, sir, if you will be good enough to march in front of me down to the front door, I will let you out. You two,” he continued, addressing Sybil and Forsyth in the same quiet tones, “will greatly oblige me by not raising any alarm or disturbing the servants while I am gone.”
“I am coming downstairs with you,” said Forsyth, drily.
When the procession of three, led by the stranger with a brace of pistols at his head, had filed off to the grand staircase, Sybil ran back to her room and fetched her candle. An
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