He had described to his wife, with some ferocity, the cruel manner in which he would annihilate the first three burglars who entered the hall, and was proceeding to describe his method of dealing with the fourth, when there came a loud knocking on the front door of the château. Stricken silent, turned to stone, Firmin sat with his mouth open, in the midst of an unfinished word. Madame Firmin scuttled to the kitchen door she had left unlocked on her return from the scullery, and locked it. She turned, and they stared at one another. The heavy knocker fell again and again and again. Between the knocking there was a sound like the roaring of lions. Husband and wife stared at one another with white faces. Firmin picked up his gun with trembling hands, and the movement seemed to set his teeth chattering. They chattered like castanets. The knocking still went on, and so did the roaring. It had gone on at least for five minutes, when a slow gleam of comprehension lightened Madame Firmin’s face. “I believe it’s the master’s voice,” she said. “The master’s voice!” said Firmin, in a hoarse, terrified whisper. “Yes,” said Madame Firmin. And she unlocked the thick door and opened it a few inches. The barrier removed, the well-known bellow of the millionaire came distinctly to their ears. Firmin’s courage rushed upon him in full flood. He clumped across the room, brushed his wife aside, and trotted to the door of the château. He unlocked it, drew the bolts, and threw it open. On the steps stood the millionaire, Germaine, and Sonia. Irma stood at the horse’s head. “What the devil have you been doing?” bellowed the millionaire. “What do you keep me standing in the rain for? Why didn’t you let me in?” “B-b-b-burglars—I thought you were b-b-b-burglars,” stammered Firmin. “Burglars!” howled the millionaire. “Do I sound like a burglar?” At the moment he did not; he sounded more like a bull of Bashan. He bustled past Firmin to the door of the hall. “Here! What’s this locked for?” he bellowed. “I—I—locked it in case burglars should get in while I was opening the front door,” stammered Firmin. The millionaire turned the key, opened the door, and went into the hall. Germaine followed him. She threw off her dripping coat, and said with some heat: “I can’t conceive why you didn’t make sure that there was a train at a quarter to nine. I will not go to Paris to-night. Nothing shall induce me to take that midnight train!” “Nonsense!” said the millionaire. “Nonsense—you’ll have to go! Where’s that infernal time-table?” He rushed to the table on to which he had thrown the time-table after looking up the train, snatched it up, and looked at the cover. “Why, hang it!” he cried. “It’s for June—June, 1903!” “Oh!” cried Germaine, almost in a scream. “It’s incredible! It’s one of Jacques’ jokes!” CHAPTER VIII THE DUKE ARRIVES