“It’s the De Saure house,” he said, “and has been unoccupied for months—Your Highness must have been mistaken.”
The Archduke moved on. “Doubtless, the wind plays queer tricks with sound on such a night; yet my ears rarely deceive me.”
They were passing the wide entrance gates, and he went nearer and peered within—and as though in answer, from out the darkness came the shriek of one in awful terror.
“Don’t strike me again! For God’s sake don’t strike me!”
The Archduke seized the gate.
“Come on, Bernheim,” he exclaimed; “it is a woman.”
The Aide caught his arm.
“Don’t, sir,” he said; “don’t—it is nothing for you to mix in—it is for the police.”
Armand made no answer; he was trying to find the latch.
“I pray Your Highness to refrain,” Bernheim begged; “an Archduke—”