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Updated: May 25, 2025
Lanyard's laugh offered amends for the rudeness, as if he said: "Sorry but you asked for it, you know." "Birds of a feather," was his comment, whimsical; "coals to Newcastle!" "My jewels!" The princess gathered them up tenderly and faced him, blazing with resentment. He returned a twisted smile, an apologetic shrug. "Madame la princesse didn't know? I'm so sorry."
If "Karl" had been the thief, it must have been after Lanyard's return, and while the Baron was preoccupied with the task of keeping the prisoner quiet, to let the search proceed. In that event "Karl" had lied deliberately to his superior. Why? Because the document was salable, and "Karl" intended to realize its value for his personal benefit? Not an unlikely explanation.
Still, it was a tolerably personable figure that suffered Lanyard's critical inspection. And an emergency is an emergency. Those readily serviceable clothes were of more value than the most superbly tailored garments that could possibly have been made up for him in any reasonable length of time.
In this process something fell from between the fingers of his right hand something small and silver-bright that caught Lanyard's eye. Picking it up, he examined with interest a small hypodermic syringe loaded to the full capacity of its glass cylinder, plunger drawn back all ready for instant service.
Then nerves or physical endurance began to fail, he dropped back, and the Delorme touring car was thereafter seldom visible. No more, for that matter, was the grey shadow. Lanyard's forecast seemed to be borne out by its conduct: Dupont was biding his time and would undoubtedly attempt nothing before nightfall.
But, thanks to forethought, his footwork was faultless: he wore shoes old, well-broken, very soft, flexible, and silent. The building was in the shape of a squat E, with two courts facing south. On this seventh level the first court was bridged by a single girder, the middle of which was Lanyard's immediate objective.
There, with a foot lifted to enter the four-wheeler, Prince Victor turned, shaking an impassioned hand in Lanyard's face. "You'll pay me for this!" he spluttered. "I'll square accounts with you, Lanyard, if I have to follow you to the gates of hell!" "Better not," Lanyard warned him fairly, "if you do, I'll push you in ... Bon soir, monsieur le prince!"
Its initial glare struck squarely into Lanyard's eyes, dazzling them, as he peered through a narrow opening in the portieres; and though the light was instantly shifted, for several moments a blur of peacock colour, blending, ebbing, hung like a curtain in the darkness, and he could see nothing distinctly only the trail traced by that dancing spot-light over walls and furnishings.
"That's a big name" Lanyard's smile was diffident, a plea for suspended judgment on his lack of inventiveness "for a lame idea. I believe our only course is to let them believe they have been successful in every way, and so lull them into carelessness with a false sense of security." A wrinkle appeared between the woman's eyebrows.
"I looked around as soon as I heard her call out," Collison replied; "but I didn't see anybody, only mademoiselle here and you, of course, with that match." "Please help me up," Liane Delorme asked in a faint voice. Collison lent a hand. In the support and shelter of Lanyard's arm the woman's body quivered like that of a frightened child. "I must go to my stateroom," she sighed uncertainly.
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