Guerchard ground his teeth. He was panting; his bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets; the beads of cold sweat stood out on his forehead. He came back towards the table on unsteady feet, trembling from head to foot in the last excitation of the nerves. He kept jerking his head to shake away the mist which kept dimming his eyes.
“At your slightest gesture, at your slightest movement, I’ll fire,” he said jerkily, and covered the Duke with his revolver.
“I call myself the Duke of Charmerace. You will be arrested to-morrow!” said the Duke, in a compelling, thrilling voice.
“I don’t care a curse!” cried Guerchard.
“Only FIFTY SECONDS!” said the Duke.
“Yes, yes,” muttered Guerchard huskily. And his eyes shot from the coronet to the Duke, from the Duke to the coronet.
“In fifty seconds the coronet will be stolen,” said the Duke.
“No!” cried Guerchard furiously.
“Yes,” said the Duke coldly.
“No! no! no!” cried Guerchard.