“Oh, what is it, your Grace?” said Sonia anxiously.
“Guerchard has a warrant for your arrest.”
“Then I’m lost!” cried Sonia, in a panic-stricken voice.
“No, you’re not. You must go—at once,” said the Duke.
“But how can I go? No one can get out of the house. M. Guerchard won’t let them,” cried Sonia, panic-stricken.
“We can get over that,” said the Duke.
He ran to Guerchard’s cloak, took the card-case from the inner pocket, went to the writing-table, and sat down. He took from his waist-coat pocket the permit which Guerchard had given him, and a pencil. Then he took a card from the card-case, set the permit on the table before him, and began to imitate Guerchard’s handwriting with an amazing exactness. He wrote on the card:
“Pass Mademoiselle Kritchnoff.”
“J. GUERCHARD.”
Sonia stood by his side, panting quickly with fear, and watched him do it. He had scarcely finished the last stroke, when they heard a noise on the other side of the opening into the empty house. The Duke looked at the fireplace, and his teeth bared in an expression of cold ferocity. He rose with clenched fists, and took a step towards the fireplace.
“Your Grace? Your Grace?” called the voice of Guerchard.