Too soon came the fatal announcement, "Mr. Roderick Nape will recite a dramatic monologue, ’The Murder at Fairleigh Grange,’" and he stumbled up on the platform clutching his manuscript tightly. He began huskily the opening lines. "It is now many years since I became a detective, and care has whitened my locks, yet it seems but yesterday," etc., etc. He slurred his lines horribly. He somehow missed the exact qualities of tragedy as he unfolded his gory tale. The audience sat quiet and behaved decorously, but it refused to be thrilled. Mr. Nape recognized his failure and boggled his lines horribly, and the Duke was genuinely sorry for him. He came to the part of the story where he sees the agony advertisement. He was looking forward to this part, as the desert traveller anticipates the oasis. For here he had excuse for a pause, and a pause might help him to collect his scattered thoughts. So his utterance grew steadier as with trembling fingers he drew from his waistcoat pocket the little clipping. "Come (he quavered), let me read the paper again;" he held it up and read—yes, actually read, although he ought to have remembered that this cutting had no reference whatever to the plot of his one-man melodrama. But Mr. Nape was beyond the point of reasoning. "To whom it may concern," he read, then paused. The audience was curious and silent, and Mr. Nape went on:— "In the district court of Nevada." Hank’s arm gripped the Duke’s. "Take notice George Francisco Louis Duc de Montvillier, that a writ has been issued at the instance of Henry Sleaford of Colorado Springs, Henry B. Sant of New York and Sir Harry Tanneur of Montleigh, England, calling upon you to establish your title to the Silver Streak——" "Stop!" Sir Harry, his face purple, the veins of his temples swollen, was on his feet. "Go on, Mr. Nape, please." It was the Duke’s gentle voice. In a dream Mr. Nape obeyed. In his not unnatural agitation he skipped a few lines. "... therefore I call upon you, the aforesaid George Francisco Louis Duc de Montvillier to appear before me at 10 o’clock in the forenoon of the 28th day of October, 1907." "The twenty-eighth!" gasped Hank, "to-day’s the twentieth, the boat has sailed——" He heard Tanneur’s laugh, harsh and triumphant. "The _Ironic_ doesn’t call at Queenstown," he said and laughed again. "No, but the German boat will be passing through the Straits of Dover in two hours’ time," said the Duke. XII Outside in the vestibule the Duke looked at his watch. It was ten minutes past nine. The girl by his side was quiet, but her eyes never left his face. "I’m going to do it," he said grimly. He looked at her and of a sudden took her face between his hands and kissed her. "You’re worth it," he said simply. St. John’s station was ten minutes walk from the hall.