CHAPTER VII—_The Men on the Stairs_ The rooms—two in number—occupied by Alec Forsyth in John Street, Adelphi, were in a house let off in bachelor chambers, with the exception of the ground floor, which was used as an office by a firm of wholesale wine-merchants. The young Scotsman’s limited income had precluded a more aristocratic locality; and, at any rate, John Street offered the advantage of being within a few minutes’ walk of his daily work in Downing Street. In the daytime, when the tenants were out at their various avocations, the upper part of the dingy old building was deserted, save by the housekeeper in the attics; while the counting-house abutting on the street was all life and bustle. At night the conditions were reversed, the wine-merchant’s premises being locked up and silent, and the rooms above occupied. On the evening of that Monday on which the Duke of Beaumanoir called on the Shermans at the residence of General Sadgrove, Alec was busy in his sitting-room, tearing up papers and preparing generally for his departure to Prior’s Tarrant on the morrow. It was past eight, and he had just lit the gas, when the door suddenly opened and Beaumanoir came in. "Why, Charley—hang it! Duke, I mean—I thought you were in the country!" Alec exclaimed, more astonished by his friend’s actions than by his appearance there. For, after slipping quietly in, Beaumanoir had turned sharp round and loosed the catch of the spring-lock. Not satisfied with that, he also shot home the two old-fashioned bolts with which the door was fitted, top and bottom, and then flung himself into an easy chair, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. "I don’t think I was spotted, but it’s best to be on the safe side," he muttered. Then aloud: "I came to ask you to give me a shake-down to-night, old chap, on a sofa or anything; only I don’t know if it’s fair to you; my proximity carries a pretty considerable risk. But I’ve been—rather worried, and I seem to want company." Forsyth rose, and laid an affectionate hand on the Duke’s shoulder. "Now, look here," he said, firmly. "I’m going to forget that you’re my employer at a generous salary, and remember only that I’m your friend. What does all this mean? You’ve been hurt somehow, too. Just make a clean breast of it, and let’s see what can be done." Beaumanoir shook his head sadly. "I can’t make a clean breast of it," he began; then pulled up short and went on. "At least, I can’t tell you causes, but I’ll tell you effects. My life has been attempted twice certainly, possibly three times, since noon yesterday." "How?" said Alec with Scotch brevity. "A lame gardener was set upon at Prior’s Tarrant, and released on his assailants finding that they had mistaken him for me. And at night they got on the roof and tried to suffocate me by letting a brazier of charcoal down into the grate and plugging the chimney. Luckily I awoke, and managed to crawl out of the room in time."