the pocket along with the cabal. His long rapier snarled from its
scabbard, just in time. The two blades hung in mid air.

"Nicely caught," said the cold, dry voice again. "What have you to
say? It is hanging, Monsieur, hanging by the neck." The speaker was a
man of sixty, white of hair, but wiry and active. "Ha! in a mask, eh?
That looks bad for you. You are not a common thief, then? . . . That
was a good stroke, but not quite high enough. Well?"

"Stand aside, Monsieur le Comte," said the man in the cloak. His tones
were steady; all his fright was gone.

The steel slithered and ground.

"You know me, eh?" said the old man, banteringly. His blade ripped a
hole in the cloak. "You have a voice that sounds strangely familiar to
my ears."

"Your ears will soon be dull and cold, if you do not let me pass."

"Was it gold, or jewels? . . . Jesus!" The old man's gaze, roving a
hair's breadth, saw the yawning drawers. "That paper, Monsieur, or you
shall never leave this place alive! Hallo! Help, men! To me,
Grégoire! Help, Captain!"

"Madame shall become a widow," said the man in the mask.

Back he pressed the old man, back, back, into the corridor, toward the
stairs. They could scarce see each other, and it was by instinct alone
that thrust was met by parry. Up the rear staircase came a dozen