“It’s the pistol, yonder, or the sword, here,” he said; “which will you choose?”
The fellow chanced to be almost in line with the front stairs, and for answer he sprang across the hall and dashed down them. Bernheim’s gun spoke thrice: the first bullet struck the wall; the second, the newel post; the third, fired into the semi-obscurity below, and as the knave’s head was almost on a line with the floor, brought an answering cry; but it did not disable him; they heard him stumble over the broken chest, then the key was thrust into the lock, the front door was flung back, and he crossed the porch at a run.
“He’s the last of them, I fancy,” said Armand.
Bernheim looked at the pistol in disgust.
“I never did have any patience with these toys,” he growled; “three shots across a blanket, and only a touch!”
The Archduke pointed to the dead body.
“You did pretty well there,” he said.
“Luck, pure luck.” He went over to the stairs. “I don’t hear anything,” he said; “the chest seems to be very quiet—what about the lights; shall I turn them off?”
“First take a look at these gentlemen,” said Armand; “do you know them?”
The Aide stooped over the one he had killed and jerked off the mask that covered his upper face—then did the same with the other, and shook his head.