to himself to feel papers sewn into the lining, and laughed again as he
tore the lining loose and drew forth a flat linen envelope brilliant with
three seals of red wax.

Steps sounded below; a man was running up the back stairs; and from the
kitchen rose sounds of mighty groanings and cursings in the heavy
gutturals of the Servian, as he regained his wits and sought to explain
his plight.

Armitage picked up a chair, ran noiselessly to the head of the back
stairs, and looked down upon Chauvenet, who was hurrying up with a
flaming candle held high above his head, its light showing anxiety and
fear upon his face. He was half-way up the last flight, and Armitage
stood in the dark, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and
something, too, of humor. Then he spoke--in French--in a tone that
imitated the cool irony he had noted in Durand's tone:

"A few murders more or less! But Von Stroebel was hardly a fair mark,
dearest Jules!"

With this he sent the chair clattering down the steps, where it struck
Jules Chauvenet's legs with a force that carried him howling lustily
backward to the second landing.

Armitage turned and sped down the front stairway, hearing renewed clamor
from the rear and cries of rage and pain from the second story. In
fumbling for the front door he found a hat, and, having lost his own,
placed it upon his head, drew his inverness about his shoulders, and went
quickly out. A moment later he slipped the catch in the wall door and
stepped into the boulevard.