"Edward Leighton! My father's attorney! How did you know of him, sir?"
"I have an agent in New York," answered the Duke, "and lately I have been in your city myself."
"Then, if you know so much, you scoundrelly thief, you know that my father will not honor a draft for such a sum as you demand. I doubt if my father would pay a single dollar to save me from assassination."
"We will not discuss that, signore, for I regret to say that your father is no longer able to honor drafts. However, your attorney can do so, and will, without question."
Ferralti stared at him blankly.
"What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
The Duke shook the ashes from his cigar and examined the glowing end with interest.
"Your father," was the deliberate reply, "was killed in a railway accident, four days ago. I have just been notified of the fact by a cable from America."
Ferralti sat trembling and regarding the man with silent horror.
"Is this true, sir?" asked Uncle John, quickly; "or is it only a part of your cursed game?"