With quite a natural movement Forsyth edged a little nearer to the man with the lamp, and the movement seemed to break the spell which held Ziegler speechless. The chief turned abruptly to his followers. "I must have a word with this gentleman—with the Duke—alone," he squeaked. "Go out into the garden and await close outside—within call. Here, I will keep the lamp." Forsyth noticed that the well-shaped hand with which he grasped the contrivance was shaking violently—so violently, that the ray with which he guided his four subordinates through the groined arches to the door wavered like a will-o’-the-wisp. He waited till the last one had filed out before he turned again to the man who had baffled him. "Well, Mr. Forsyth?" he piped, and the high-pitched note quivered and trembled as the lamp-ray had done. "Well, sir?" Forsyth repeated, in blank amazement at the sparing of his life, for unless some hidden treachery beyond his fathoming was afoot, he could not doubt that it was spared. He was more than a physical match for the aged evil-doer in front of him, and before the others could be recalled he could make good his retreat into the house by the way he had come. The quiet acceptance of defeat by the bloodthirsty old schemer was a puzzle beyond solution, if it was not a veil for some further villainy. "You have beaten me, Mr. Forsyth—you and General Sadgrove," Ziegler went on. "I don’t suppose it’s of any use my offering you a bribe to bring me back the package you have obtained so smartly? I would make it a very large one." "Not the slightest use," Forsyth answered, almost laughing, yet more than ever puzzled by the _naïveté_ of the question. "I have been at considerable pains to deprive you of your bogus bonds, and it is hardly likely, Mr. Ziegler, that I am going to restore your power over the Duke of Beaumanoir. He is a brave man, and doesn’t fear death. You can’t hurt him that way; but with these forgeries in your possession you might make some sort of a story good against him. Without them, anything you could say would be an idle tale." "That is not the point, believe me, Mr. Forsyth," the shrill voice quavered almost pleadingly. "The contents of that package took three of my most skilled colleagues months to prepare. They are proud of their work—love those forged bonds as if they were their children. To their pride in their work I should owe my life, if you would give them back to me." Forsyth could hardly believe his ears. Could this tremulous dotard be the redoubtable master of crime whom he and his uncle had been fighting throughout the last crowded week? "I really don’t see how your not particularly valuable life can depend on your possession of a lot of bogus bonds," he said, with genuine curiosity. The appeal to his pity filled him with vague uneasiness, the alleged reason for it being so utterly absurd. Yet Ziegler was ready with an explanation, more or less plausible.