"Don't shoot!"
"Don't shoot!"
And the canvas opened neatly, to permit the elegant but dusty figure of Carlos Hernando, Duke of Alva, to step to the mantelpiece and leap clumsily to the floor.
The Princess had sprung to her feet.
"Your Excellency, you are a long way from Madrid!"
The Duke, brushing off his sleeves, snarled back: "You fool, you've stepped right into the trap. I knew you were after the treasure."
"Oh, no, your man-at-arms did that, and if you try to lie yourself out of this ... if it weren't for your cousin, I'd blow your damned head off! Then I'd throw you down after the other poor devil—you've got a lot of souls to answer for. See here, give me that locket—no, give her that locket, or by the living God, I'll break your ... Come on now!"
"Carlos!" and the girl held out a stiff arm. The Duke fumbled in an inner pocket, and dropped the memorandum into her hand.
"I told you all ghosts were cowards."