"A man just come from Paris, with some special news," said the voice of the Countess.
"I will see him," was the curt reply, "but do not let any one come near the room afterward."
The door opened and shut as a desperate looking a character as one could imagine entered with a swaggering mien, his cap pulled low over his eyes. How he could have come through the London streets Cleek found himself wondering, in spite of his own fearful predicament.
"You have a special message for me?" said Margot, concealing the revolver in her hand.
There was dead silence. The messenger evidently was listening to the sound of the retreating footsteps.
"Be queek. I haf not time——" she went on in English as if she wished Ailsa Lorne to know how little she regarded her presence.
"Not 'arf I ain't, lady!" was the astonishing reply, as Dollops hurled himself forward.
With an exclamation Margot whipped out the revolver again. A shot rang out, but Dollops was too quick. Like a veritable human catapult he flung himself on the figure of the woman, the impetus carrying her down on the slippery floor, her head striking against the carved table leg. Then all was silence.
"God bless you, Dollops!" breathed Cleek, as the lad bounded over and slashed furiously at the binding ropes.
"Quick, sir! Miss Ailsa, put my coat on. Gawd bless yer both, and now let's get out before this beauty wakes up, or shall I finish her, sir?"