"Release my coachman," he called peremptorily, "or I fire."
"Easy, M. le Comte," came as a sharp warning out of the night, in those same weirdly familiar tones; "as like as not you would be shooting your own men in this infernal darkness."
"Who is it?" whispered Crystal hoarsely. "I seem to know that voice."
"God protect us," murmured Jeanne. "It's the devil's voice, Mademoiselle."
Mme. la Duchesse said nothing. No doubt she was too frightened to speak. Her thin, bony fingers were clasped tightly round her niece's hands.
Suddenly there was another scuffle by the door, the sharp report of a pistol and then that strangely familiar voice called out again:
"Merely as a matter of form, M. le Comte!"
"You will hang for this, you rogue," came in response from the Comte.
But already Crystal had torn her hands out of Mme. la Duchesse's grasp and now was struggling to free herself from Jeanne's terrified and clinging embrace.
"Father!" she cried wildly. "Maurice! Maurice! Help! Let me go, Jeanne! They are hurting him!"