"No; they are not. There’s no one of that name in the house that I know of," replied Forsyth, partially mollified by his mild manner, and wholly so when the little man proceeded to apologize for his mistake, explaining that he was from a chemist’s in the Strand with some medicine for the gentleman, but that he must have come to the wrong house. Holding up a bottle as evidence of his _bona fides_, he retreated downstairs, excusing himself to the last; but before going he had managed to snatch a comprehensive glance round the room. Forsyth waited on the landing until his steps had died away, and then went back into his room, barring the door as before. "It’s all right," he said, going to the folding doors. "Only some chap who had mistaken the address." "Not much mistake there," replied the Duke, outwardly calm, but gone very white. "I caught a peep of him. He’s a johnny who shadowed me over from America, and never left me till just before I met you at the Cecil. He called himself Marker, and—and he’s in this business, Alec." "He didn’t look very formidable. Why, you could lick the thread-paper little skimp with one hand," said Forsyth, beginning to wonder if his friend’s mind were unhinged. It was not like the once gay hussar Charley Hanbury—intrepid horseman, champion boxer, and good all-round athlete—to funk a miserable wisp such as that! "He is only the spy, I expect—sent to find out if I was here," replied Beaumanoir, passing a weary hand over his eyes. Moved by a sudden impulse, Forsyth went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him so as to be in the dark. The window commanded a view of the street, and the blind had not been drawn. Looking down, he saw a man sauntering on the opposite pavement, who presently coming under the rays of a street-lamp was revealed as Marker. Forsyth waited until the spy turned and slowly retraced his steps, and then went back into the sitting-room. "You have convinced me that there is something in all this," he said. "That fellow is mouching about outside." "I’ll go. I can’t subject you to this sort of thing," said Beaumanoir, reaching for the new hat which he had purchased after his "accident." But Forsyth pushed him back into his chair. "A duke isn’t necessarily a fool," he said, roughly. "What you want most is a good sleep, and you shall have it—here in these rooms. Mr. Marker can’t _know_ that you are here, or he wouldn’t have come to the door with that bogus yarn. Also, he is evidently not satisfied that you are _not_ here, or he would have gone away. It remains to throw dust in his eyes and fool him a bit. Lord! how I wish my uncle, General Sadgrove, was with us!" "He seemed to me a trifle dull," remarked the Duke, inconsequently. Forsyth made allowances, and did not answer.