"Has John Hoffman, otherwise called Ninety-One, arrived?"
"No, Sir."
"This, indeed, is strange, very strange!" ejaculated Ezekiel, much agitated, "and Gaspar Manuel—has he been here?"
"No, sir," answered Michael, "the four persons with the box have been here, and that is all. I had the box carried into the banquet-room."
At a sign from Ezekiel, the aged servant retired.
"Altogether strange! The seven were notified by letter, and by a carefully worded advertisement in the daily papers, of the place and hour of meeting. And not one arrived! What if they should not appear?"
The sound of the old clock disturbed his meditations. One,—two,—three! He had passed three hours in wandering through the old mansion. Only a single hour remained.
"Three hours gone!" Ezekiel started from his chair, "no word of Ninety-One, Gaspar Manuel, or the seven! It may be," and he felt a strange hope kindling in his heart, "that the night will pass and not one of the seven appear!"
The words had not passed his lips, when a heavy footstep was heard in the corridor, and the door was flung open. A stout muscular form came rapidly to the light. It was Ninety-One. His garments were covered with snow, and there were stains of blood upon his scarred face. From beneath his shaggy eyebrows, knit in a settled frown, his eyes shone with a ferocious glare.
"What news?" ejaculated Ezekiel.