“In other words, on some pretext or other, he was lured in, then made prisoner, and—!”
He paused suddenly and his hand met Miss Thorne’s warningly. The silence of the night was broken by the violent clatter of footsteps, apparently approaching the embassy. The noise was unmistakable—some one was running.
“The window!” Miss Thorne whispered.
She rose quickly and started to cross the room, to look out; Mr. Grimm sat motionless, listening. An instant later and there came a tremendous crash of glass—the French window in the hallway by the sound—then rapid footsteps, still running, along the hall. Mr. Grimm moved toward the door unruffled, perfectly self-possessed; there was only a narrowing of his eyes at the abruptness and clatter of it all. And then the electric lights in the hall flashed up.
Before Mr. Grimm stood a man, framed by the doorway, staring unseeingly into the darkened room. His face was haggard and white as death; his mouth agape as if from exertion, and the lips bloodless; his eyes were widely distended as if from fright—clothing disarranged, collar unfastened and dangling.
“The ambassador!” Miss Thorne whispered thrillingly.
XIV
A RESCUE AND AN ESCAPE
Miss Thorne’s voice startled Mr. Grimm a little, but he had no doubts. It was Monsieur Boissegur. Mr. Grimm was going toward the enframed figure when, without any apparent reason, the ambassador turned and ran along the hall; and at that instant the lights went out again. For one moment Grimm stood still, dazed and blinded by the sudden blackness, and again he started toward the door. Miss Thorne was beside him.
“The lights!” he whispered tensely. “Find the switch!”
He heard the rustle of her skirts as she moved away, and stepped out into the hall, feeling with both his hands along the wall. A few feet away, in the direction the ambassador had gone, there seemed to be a violent struggle in progress—there was the scuffling of feet, and quick-drawn breaths as muscle strained against muscle. The lights! If he could only find the switch! Then, as his hands moved along the wall, they came in contact with another hand—a hand pressed firmly against the plastering, barring his progress. A light blow in the face caused him to step back quickly.
The scuffling sound suddenly resolved itself into moving footsteps, and the front door opened and closed with a bang. Mr. Grimm’s listless eyes snapped, and his white teeth came together sharply as he started toward the front door. But fate seemed to be against him still. He stumbled over a chair, and his own impetus forward sent him sprawling; his head struck the wall with a resounding whack; and then, over the house, came utter silence. From outside he heard the clatter of a cab. Finally that died away in the distance.
“Miss Thorne?” he inquired quietly.
“I’m here,” she answered in a despairing voice. “But I can’t find the switch.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
And then she found the switch; the lights flared up. Mr. Grimm was sitting thoughtfully on the floor.
“That simplifies the matter considerably,” he observed complacently, as he rose. “The men who signaled to me when you entered the embassy will never let that cab get out of their sight.”
Miss Thorne stood leaning forward a little, eagerly gazing at him with those wonderful blue-gray eyes, and an expression of—of—perhaps it was admiration on her face.
“Are you sure?” she demanded, at last.
“I know it,” was his response.
And just then Monsieur Rigolot, secretary of the embassy, thrust an inquisitive head timidly around the corner of the stairs. The crash of glass had aroused him.
“What happened?” he asked breathlessly.
“We don’t know just yet,” replied Mr. Grimm. “If the noise aroused any one else please assure them that there’s nothing the matter. And you might inform Madame Boissegur that the ambassador will return home to-morrow. Good night!”
At his hotel, when he reached there, Mr. Grimm found Miss Thorne’s card—and he drew a long breath; at his office he found another of her cards, and he drew another long breath. He did like corroborative details, did Mr. Grimm, and, of course, this—! On the following day Miss Thorne accompanied him to Alexandria, and they were driven in a closed carriage out toward the western edge of the city. Finally the carriage stopped at a signal from Mr. Grimm, and he assisted Miss Thorne out, after which he turned and spoke to some one remaining inside—a man.
“The house is two blocks west, along that street there,” he explained, and he indicated an intersecting thoroughfare just ahead. “It is number ninety-seven. Five minutes after we enter you will drive up in front of the door and wait. If we don’t return in fifteen minutes—come in after us!”
“Do you anticipate danger?” Miss Thorne queried quickly.
“If I had anticipated danger,” replied Mr. Grimm, “I should not have permitted you to come with me.”
They entered the house—number ninety-seven—with a key which Mr. Grimm produced, and a minute or so later walked into a room where three men were sitting. One of them was of a coarse, repulsive type, large and heavy; another rather dapper, of superficial polish, evidently a foreigner, and the third—the third was Ambassador Boissegur!
“Good morning, gentlemen!” Mr. Grimm greeted them, then ceremoniously: “Monsieur Boissegur, your carriage is at the door.”
The three men came to their feet instantly, and one of them—he of the heavy face—drew a revolver. Mr. Grimm faced him placidly.
“Do you know what would happen to you if you killed me?” he inquired pleasantly. “You wouldn’t live three minutes. Do you imagine I came in here blindly? There are a dozen men guarding the entrances to the house—a pistol shot would bring them in. Put down the gun!”
Eyes challenged eyes for one long tense instant, and the man carefully laid the weapon on the table. Mr. Grimm strolled
