“Attend to your mistress, and leave my way free,” cried Frank Amberley, still holding the deadly weapon leveled menacingly. He was as ignorant as any one there whether the second chamber was loaded or not, but that signified little, as he had not the most remote intention of hurting as much as a fly. With a quick, threatening step and determined air, he strode toward the door. Some of the domestics fled precipitately up-stairs, others crawled back by another door leading into the two drawing-rooms. A whispered buzz ran round, but no one raised a hand to stay the supposed assailant of the mistress of the house. Pistol in hand, he walked between the two startled groups, steadily, with perfect sang-froid. At the top of the stairs he turned, and went down step by step, backward, lest he should be surprised and overpowered. No one stirred, however, though some of the women peered over the balustrade. One of the housemaids ran and raised Madam Guiscardini, who still remained in her convenient swoon, while the other flew to get some water from a side table. Arrived in the hall, Frank Amberley opened the door, laid the pistol on the hall table, and went out. “Thank Heaven, so far!” he exclaimed, aloud, as he found himself at liberty in the open air. He marveled how they had let him depart, and expected to see them rushing after him, hallooing at the top of their voices. A few rapid strides brought him to the corner. He had it in his heart to take to his heels, but did not yield to the temptation. His pulses were throbbing painfully, and he knew that much was yet to come, but he contrived to maintain his composure. With joy he saw a slowly crawling hansom coming toward him. The driver hailed him, and he threw himself into the vehicle with a sense of relief indescribable. “Alderman’s Lane, city,” he cried. It seemed scarcely credible that he should have succeeded in so readily discovering the inestimable treasure which had seemed utterly beyond reach. On reaching his destination, the young lawyer ran lightly up the steps, and passed into the office. As it happened, Mr. Willis Joyner was there, reading a note which had just come for him. He looked up, and cried out as if in surprise: “Hello, Amberley, is that you? What have you been up to--practising a little mild burglary, eh?” “A cabman gave you an Italian register just now, did he not?” anxiously inquired Frank. “He did. I put it in my safe.” Arrived in the chamber devoted to the use of the cheerful and urbane Mr. Willis Joyner, Frank seized on the volume the instant it was produced from the ponderous iron safe. In a very short investigation--for he was an accomplished master of the Italian language--he lighted on the register which was to set Paul Desfrayne at liberty. “By the way,” Mr. Willis remarked, “a telegram arrived for you directly after you left this morning. I had forgotten.” “A telegram? Did an Italian call for me?” “Not that I know of.”