I nodded. “And the program?”
“It is very simple. His back is toward the door. When the next quarter chimes, I push open the door softly. I give a twist to my good cloak, and, voila, we shall have caught our prey. Blow out the candles, then help me. We shall wrap the cloak comfortably about his head, so that he can not see or hear. Then I go through his pockets. If the stolen pages are there, very good. If not, his keys may be useful. Have you a rope? We must fasten his arms and legs.”
“Yes, a trunk-strap.”
“Good. En garde, then. I am extremely thirsty. My poor lips ache for a smack of that good liqueur.”
The clock chimed the half-hour sweetly. St. Hilary, holding the dripping cloak before him like a shield, pushed open the door.
CHAPTER XIII
St. Hilary did not bungle; and the cloak served admirably. The duke was no mean antagonist. As I placed my knee on his spine and twisted his arms back, while St. Hilary adjusted the bonds and the gag, I made up my mind that I should have to train down a little.
“And now?” I whispered, when we had trussed him up, for all the world like a fat fowl. It seemed to me rather useless and silly, all this fuss, and yet, I confess, I found it exciting.
St. Hilary shook his head for silence. One of the duke’s cigarettes drooping at the corner of his mouth, he deliberately went through da Sestos’s pockets. As I watched him, I shook with silent laughter. St. Hilary played his part with such boyish gusto. They made a picture, those two: the duke straining frantically at his bonds; St. Hilary, deft and cool, quite to the manner born, tapping this pocket and that, and emptying the contents of each in a little heap on the table–money, keys, letters. When he had glanced through the last, he conscientiously returned each article to its respective pocket. Except the keys and the copy of a telegram. The keys he calmly transferred to his own pocket; the telegram he handed to me. I read it curiously:
“Please tell Mr. Hume that he is by all means to give you the clock at once.”