and he went towards the door.
“Funk!” said the Duke scornfully.
Guerchard turned sharply. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll stick it out alone.”
“How rash!” sneered the Duke.
Guerchard ground his teeth. He was panting; his bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets; the beads of cold sweat stood out on his forehead. He came back towards the table on unsteady feet, trembling from head to foot in the last excitation of the nerves. He kept jerking his head to shake away the mist which kept dimming his eyes.
“At your slightest gesture, at your slightest movement, I’ll fire,” he said jerkily, and covered the Duke with his revolver.
“I call myself the Duke of Charmerace. You will be arrested tomorrow!” said the Duke, in a compelling, thrilling voice.
“I don’t care a curse!” cried Guerchard.
“Only fifty seconds!” said the Duke.
“Yes, yes,” muttered Guerchard huskily. And his eyes shot from the coronet to the Duke, from the Duke to the coronet.
“In fifty seconds the coronet will be stolen,” said the Duke.
“No!” cried Guerchard furiously.
“Yes,” said the Duke coldly.
“No! no! no!” cried Guerchard.
Their eyes turned to the clock.
To Guerchard the hands seemed to be standing still. He could have sworn at them for their slowness.
Then the first stroke rang out; and the eyes of the two men met like crossing blades. Twice the Duke made the slightest movement. Twice Guerchard started forward to meet it.
At the last stroke both their hands shot out. Guerchard’s fell heavily on the case which held the coronet. The Duke’s fell on the brim of his hat; and he picked it up.
Guerchard gasped and choked. Then he cried triumphantly:
“I have it; now then, have I won? Have I been fooled this time? Has Lupin got the coronet?”
“It doesn’t look like it. But are you quite sure?” said the Duke gaily.
“Sure?” cried Guerchard.
“It’s only the weight of it,” said the Duke, repressing a laugh. “Doesn’t it strike you that it’s just a trifle light?”
“What?” cried Guerchard.
“This is merely an imitation,” said the Duke, with a gentle laugh.
“Hell and damnation!” howled Guerchard. “Bonavent! Dieusy!”
The door flew open, and half a dozen detectives rushed in.
Guerchard sank into a chair, stupefied, paralyzed; this blow, on the top of the strain of the struggle with the Duke, had broken him.
“Gentlemen,” said the Duke sadly, “the coronet has been stolen.”
They broke into cries of surprise and bewilderment, surrounding the gasping Guerchard with excited questions.
The Duke walked quietly out of the room.
Guerchard sobbed twice; his eyes opened, and in a dazed fashion wandered from face to face; he said faintly: “Where is he?”
“Where’s who?” said Bonavent.
“The Duke—the Duke!” gasped Guerchard.
“Why, he’s gone!” said Bonavent.
Guerchard staggered to his feet and cried hoarsely, frantically: “Stop him from leaving the house! Follow him! Arrest him! Catch him before he gets home!”
CHAPTER XX
LUPIN COMES HOME
The cold light of the early September morning illumined but dimly the charming smoking-room of the Duke of Charmerace in his house at 34 B, University Street, though it stole in through two large windows. The smoking-room was on the first floor; and the Duke’s bedroom opened into it. It was furnished in the most luxurious fashion, but with a taste which nowadays infrequently accompanies luxury. The chairs were of the most comfortable, but their lines were excellent; the couch against the wall, between the two windows, was the last word in the matter of comfort. The colour scheme, of a light greyish-blue, was almost too bright for a man’s room; it would have better suited a boudoir. It suggested that the owner of the room enjoyed an uncommon lightness and cheerfulness of temperament. On the walls, with wide gaps between them so that they did not clash, hung three or four excellent pictures. Two ballet-girls by Degas, a group of shepherdesses and shepherds, in pink and blue and white beribboned silk, by Fragonard, a portrait of a woman by Bastien-Lepage, a charming Corot, and two Conder fans showed that the taste of their fortunate owner was at any rate eclectic. At the end of the room was, of all curious things, the opening into the well of a lift. The doors of it were open, though the lift itself was on some other floor. To the left of the opening stood a book-case, its shelves loaded with books of a kind rather suited to a cultivated, thoughtful man than to an idle dandy.
Beside the window, half-hidden, and peering through the side of the curtain into the street, stood M. Charolais. But it was hardly the M. Charolais who had paid M. Gournay-Martin that visit at the Chateau de Charmerace, and departed so firmly in the millionaire’s favourite motor-car. This was a paler M. Charolais; he lacked altogether the rich, ruddy complexion of the millionaire’s visitor. His nose, too, was thinner, and showed none of the ripe acquaintance with the vintages of the world which had been so plainly displayed on it during its owner’s visit to the country. Again, hair and eyebrows were no longer black, but fair; and his hair was no longer curly and luxuriant, but thin and lank. His moustache had vanished, and along with it the dress of a well-to-do provincial man of business. He wore a livery of the Charmeraces, and at that early morning hour had not yet assumed the blue waistcoat which is an integral part of it. Indeed it would have required an acute and experienced observer to recognize in him the bogus purchaser of the Mercrac. Only his eyes, his close-set eyes, were unchanged.
Walking restlessly up and down the middle of the room, keeping out of sight of the windows, was Victoire. She wore a very anxious air, as did Charolais too. By the door stood Bernard Charolais; and his natural, boyish timidity, to judge from his frightened eyes, had assumed an acute phase.
“By the Lord, we’re done!” cried Charolais, starting back from the window. “That was the front-door bell.”
“No, it was only the hall clock,” said Bernard.
“That’s seven o’clock! Oh, where can he be?” said Victoire, wringing her hands. “The coup was fixed for midnight.… Where can he be?”
“They must be after him,” said Charolais. “And he daren’t come home.” Gingerly he drew back the curtain and resumed his watch.
“I’ve sent down the lift to the bottom, in case he should come back by the secret entrance,” said Victoire; and she went to the opening into the well of the lift and stood looking down it, listening with all her ears.
“Then why, in the devil’s name, have you left the doors open?” cried Charolais irritably. “How do you expect the lift to come up if the doors are open?”
“I must be off my head!” cried Victoire.
She stepped to the side of the lift and pressed a button. The doors closed, and there was a grunting click of heavy machinery settling into a new position.
“Suppose we telephone to Justin at the Passy house?” said Victoire.
“What on earth’s the good of that?” said Charolais impatiently. “Justin knows no more than we do. How can he know any more?”
“The best thing we can do is to get out,” said Bernard, in a shaky voice.
“No, no; he will come.