"You pay your debts, I see," he said. "Siggen's word is his bond," the fat man said. "I told you I would get you in and get you out. Our bargain is now complete." "Your man put on a good act as a nobleman," Ostby said. "He fooled me as completely as he did the guards." "It was no act," Siggen replied. "He is a nobleman. But he owed Siggen a favor." "Good work," Ostby said. "Accept my thanks. Incidentally, I suppose you know by now that your man, Groves, was a secret agent?" "No, I did not," Siggen answered. "I wondered why he never returned. I presume you took care of him?" "Yes," Ostby replied. "Good," Siggen said. "I almost missed knowing they had you. The reports were that the Berserker had been shot leaving the Stalls. But I sent a man to check on it and he reported that the man shot by the police was not you." So poor Barbasiewiez had not gotten away, Ostby reflected sadly. And Rohr, too, was dead. That left him completely alone. But he had made some progress. He had the capsule. If the Duchess would hide him until he was ready for his next action he might still be able to close the "door." "Can you get me a carriage?" he asked Siggen. * * * * * "I think you'd be taking too big a chance if you went to the palace, even with the crowd there for the ball," the Duchess said. Her anxiety made Ostby a bit uncomfortable. Their flirtation was no longer a game with her. He felt a bit guilty whenever he observed, by the thousand little signs she gave, that she was in love with him. In ordinary times he might have loved her, also; but he was a man who never did things by halves. He had come to this world for one purpose, and he would not allow himself to be diverted from it--not even by a woman so fascinating as Rinda! He looked at her now, beside him, with her rich brown hair done up in a pug on the back of her neck, and intertwined with a string of matched pearls; her soft skin, which the sun had turned to the shade of golden honey; and her red lips. She returned the look, her blue eyes warm with love. She was a tall woman, well-formed, and she rested languidly against her cushions, but deep within Ostby could read the quiescent female vitality that rode her always. "I'm afraid that I have no choice," he said gently. "It's something that I must do." He was glad that she had never questioned him in the week he had been with her, since his escape from the Stalls. She knew only that he was doing something unlawful, and that the police wanted him badly. But she was a temperamental woman, Ostby knew, and her moods were as sudden and mercurial as a tropic storm. Now he observed one of those sudden changes building up within her. "I've decided not to let you go," she said. "It's too dangerous."