Crofton fell back as if he had seen a face from the tomb. "By what fiend's trick have I been fooled?" he cried.
"There stands the villain who betrayed you," exclaimed the young wife, pointing to Crofton with outstretched finger.
"He! My cousin! Impossible."
"It may not be too late yet," exclaimed Crofton as he sprang to one of the windows and tore aside the curtain. But next instant, with a bound like that of a tiger, Picot had flung himself on him and had gripped his neck as in a vice with both his sinewy hands. The other was no match in point of strength for the mountebank; and before he knew what had happened he found himself on his back on the floor, half-choked, with Picot kneeling on his chest and regarding him with a sardonic grin.
Clara, with a natural impulse, had clung to her husband's arm. Miss Primby and Margery were too startled to utter a word.
Picot's hand went to some inner pocket and drew from it a small revolver; then rising to his feet, he said to Crofton: "Oblige me by standing up, monsieur, and by taking a seat in that chair, or in one leetle minute you are a dead man."
Crofton, with a snarl like that of some half-cowed wild animal, did as he was bidden.
Gerald stepped quickly forward and laid a hand on Picot's arm. "What would you do?" he asked.
"Shoot him like the dog he is, if he move but one finger. If he move not--tie him up--gag him--and leave him here till you, monsieur, have time to get away."
Then addressing himself to Margery, but without taking his eyes for an instant off Crofton, he said: "My good Margot, in my room upstairs you will find one piece of rope. Bring him here. Dépêchez-vous--quick."