The laces and handkerchiefs were folded about the faded, ink-stained volume, but Frank dragged them out swift as lightning, and scattered them at his feet. The book then lay revealed, and he snatched at it. Had the poisoned ring still been on Lucia Guiscardini’s finger, Frank Amberley’s life would not have been worth a second’s purchase. As it was, she for a moment, in her mad rage, measured the possibility of matching her strength against his. But the next, the utter futility of doing anything by force pressed upon her as she glared upon the tall, slender, deep-chested, muscular figure before her. With a low, moaning growl, like that of a tigress deprived of her young, she glided half-blindly under the silken archway, into the back room, and groped there with an uncertain hand. Frank took advantage of this moment to rush to the window nearest. It was partially raised, and he flung it wide open. The cab was still in waiting, directly opposite, on the very spot where poor Gilardoni had stood scarce more than a week since. The driver was sitting tranquilly on the step of his vehicle, smoking a pipe. Frank threw the book so adroitly that it fell at the man’s feet, and called to him. The fellow caught up the dingy volume, and was under the window in a second. Frank dropped a sovereign in his hand, and said, in a clear, distinct tone: “Drive with that book to eighty-six, Alderman’s Lane, and ask for Mr. Joyner--give it to him; then wait, and if I am not back there in a couple of hours, bring him here. Give that book to no other human being, and tell no one else.” The man touched his hat, and ran to his cab. “This ’ere _is_ the very most rummiest start _I_ ever come near,” he said to himself, as he rattled off. “I wonder whatever’s up?” This scene passed in a moment. As the man was mounting his box, Lucia entered, with the same creeping, tottering, dragging step. In her hand was a tiny, silver-mounted revolver. Her brain had almost given way, and death, disgrace, misery seemed to point at her with gibbering, skeleton fingers. Her one dominant thought was that she must recover that fatal volume at all hazards. She advanced toward Frank Amberley with the aspect of a beautiful beast of prey. His hands were empty; she glared about to see what he had done with his prize. “Where is it?” she hoarsely demanded, speaking as if her throat were dry. “In a place of safety.” “Where is it, I say? What have you done with it?” She suddenly noticed the open window, and ran to it. Then the truth flashed upon her. “You have ruined me!” she screamed, rushing toward the young lawyer. “I have nothing but disgrace and despair to look forward to. But if I suffer, it matters not if it be for little or much, and I will have vengeance!”