“What!” exclaimed the Duke,—“one of their women!”
“It was voice, not beauty, I wanted—the cry of a female for help.”
Lotzen nodded and smiled. “Rather clever.”
“For a week we met at the house at eleven o’clock every night, but the American didn’t go to the Embassy. Then, last night, at twelve, he went, and old Bernheim with him. That didn’t bother me much, however, and we waited for their return. They came about two, through driving rain and wind; and the woman played her part perfectly. Such piteous cries I never heard. ‘Don’t strike me again—don’t strike me again—help—help;’ reiterated in tones that would have moved even your heart, my dear Duke. I was concealed near the gate and they moved me—and they caught the American instantly, though Bernheim scented danger and protested vigorously. ‘It may be a trap of Lotzen’s,’ he warned. ‘Damn Lotzen!’ was the prompt answer, as the girl wailed again—I tell you she was an artist at it; she, herself, must be used to beatings. They ran up the path to the house, I following; and here the whole scheme was almost upset by some fool having left the front door open. Bernheim protested that it proved the trap; and even the American was hesitating, when again the woman wailed. That settled it; and I dashed around the house to the rear entrance.
“My purpose was to draw them upstairs and finish the job there. They searched the first floor—we were on the second—then, leaving all the electric lights burning, they ascended—and we went down the back way, turned off the lights and closed and locked the doors. They promptly extinguished the lights they had set going above, and the house was in the densest darkness I have ever known. We could hear them whispering in the upper hall; and I sent two of my rogues up the front stairs and led the others up the rear, intending to snap an electric torch for the instant it would require to do our work; and which seemed all the easier because I had observed, at the gate, that the American was without his sword. When we were half way up, I heard a crash from the front, followed by the American’s laugh. I paused an instant, then hurried on, and fell over a chair that had been placed at the head of the stairs. Everything remained quiet, however, and we went forward into the hall. My finger was on the key of the torch when there came a shrill whistle, and the lights went on. I saw Bernheim in front of us, pistol in hand; it flashed, and the man on my left went down. At the same moment, the American sprang at us from behind and felled the other fellow with the hilt of a sword—where he got it the devil only knows. As for me, I admit I was dazed with surprise; I heard the American offer me the choice: pistol or sword—I took the pistol. I had retained enough sense to know I hadn’t the faintest chance with him. The front steps were near; I made the leap of my life, and plunged down them. Bernheim fired three times—this (indicating his ear) was the last; the first two missed.”
“What had become of your other pair of rogues?” the Duke asked.
“Dead. I fell over them at the foot of the stairs, buried under a huge chest.”
“Flung upon them, doubtless, as they were ascending,” said Lotzen.
Bigler nodded. “That was the crash I heard.” He took another cigarette, and lighted it carefully. “And that, madame, is the story,” he ended, looking at Mrs. Spencer.
She flashed him a bright smile.