ensconced himself when Ziegler entered the room, followed, to Beaumanoir’s surprise, by a woman, whom he did not recognize, in the faint light diffused from the corridor, as Rosa, Mrs. Talmage Eglinton’s French maid. The shadowy figures—that of the frail old man and of the trim soubrette—stood motionless and silent just within the doorway, evidently mastering the landmarks of the room. Then, at a whisper from Ziegler, the maid glided with a nod of comprehension to the nearest window, and was busy with the hasp when the rattle of still another pebble on the glass accelerated her movements. She swung the casement outwards, and in a muffled voice called down:
“’Tis ze right room. You are to come oop.”
A rustling noise, as of foliage shaken, rising from below warned the Duke that if he waited longer he might be beset by a horde of assailants. It spurred him to instant action. Set in the wall close to his place of concealment was the switch of the electric light, and stretching out his left hand he turned it on, at the same time stepping forward and covering Ziegler with his pistol. The old man blinked at him in the sudden glow, and then, quietly turning,
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