“Drop it, I say!” said the colonel, peremptorily. They heard a gritting of teeth from behind the mask as the duke closed the razor and dropped it on the floor. Still covering his accomplice, the colonel put his foot on the weapon. “Thanks, old chap!” he said, pleasantly. At that very moment he could have capitalized the gratitude of the ten prisoners at many thousands. “Fool!” came in a husky whisper. “Oh, now! I say!” “What's the difference between twenty years in the pen and twenty seconds in the electric chair? I myself prefer the chair. But I'd rather cut their throats and keep out of danger. I tell you, it's tempting Providence to leave these men--” “Is it as much as twenty years, old fellow?” queried the colonel, obviously perturbed. The duke nodded. “I say, gentlemen, I don't want to stay twenty years indoors, you know. Really, it's not a pleasant thought. What? If I give you your lives you must not take away my liberty. So I will go out now and leave you here with my friend, unless you promise not to tell the police anything that will serve as a clue and yourselves do nothing to harm us. If you will act like gentlemen I'll undertake to prevent my friend here from severing your respective jugulars. Nod for 'Yes' and shake your heads for 'No.' Promise not to talk?” Ten heads nodded vehemently. “Come, old chap; you must take their words. Gentlemen, you will be released this evening without fail. We must have time to leave New York. Avoid the reporters as you would the plague. It would not be wise to publish the facts! Think of it--the heads of the great firms! In parting from you, gentlemen, I wish to thank you in behalf of the Plunder Recovery Syndicate, to the success of whose operations you have in this instance so generously contributed. Gratitude surely is not incompatible with business methods. Gentleman, again I say, Thank you kindly, and-- why not?--_au revoir!_” And that was the last the captives saw of the man who, on behalf of the Plunder Recovery Syndicate, had reduced the holdings of pearls and trinkets of New York's most famous jewelers by a trifle over one million dollars' worth. It was nearly closing-time--midnight--that night when two men entered P. T. Ayres's corner drugstore. One of them wore a fur overcoat and a silk hat. The other was dressed in black, had a mourning-band about his hat, and wore black gloves. He carried a bag on which the sleepy lady cashier saw the “L” and the cabin tags of a transatlantic line. The man in black said to her: “May this gentleman telephone for me, miss? My throat is in pretty bad shape, and I don't want to use it.” It was in bad shape, indeed. She could hardly hear him. “But, I say, dear chap--” remonstrated the fur-coated man, whose collar was so tight that he wiggled his head violently as if in search of comfort.