of the Lady Trusia. His face was pale and dejected. Apparently
unaware of the presence of the strangers, he was fingering his revolver
holster.

The heavy gate closed behind them with an ominous clang. A chill ran
down Carter's spine. If bad came to worst he resolved to sell his life
dearly, for murder electrified the air and was closing in around them
from every side.

A wicket suddenly opened in the studded door of the castle before them.
Two men stepped through it upon the broad flat stone of its only step.

Both were past middle age but vigorous looking. The first standing in
front of and obscuring his companion was evidently a personage of
exalted rank. His hair and long mustachios were silvery white, and the
glance he shot from under his heavy brows was keen and comprehensive. He
seemed a man accustomed to both camp and court. One glance at his
carriage would have shown to the merest tyro that he was a soldier even
had he not worn a black hussar uniform. He looked coldly around upon the
impassioned throng which was quieted by the steely glitter in his
disdainful eyes, and then, turning, said something to the abashed
equerry. Without remonstrance, the young fellow drew out his revolver
and handed it to a sergeant who immediately pocketed it.

Having quieted the disturbance, he for the first time became aware of
its cause. A cry of mingled grief and rage burst from his lips. He
started impulsively forward, fumbling at his sword hilt, but his
companion laid a restraining hand upon his arm, coming into full view
for the first time.

It was no other than the Gray Man of the inn, who now, with bent head
and most deferential manner, addressed a few whispered words to the
elderly noble. After a brief, inaudible conference the two descended
from the step to advance through the menacing throng toward the
automobile.

Mechanically, Carter, reaching back his free hand, opened the door at
the back of the car. The veteran stopped within touching distance, not
deigning to notice the action of invitation, and held out imperative
arms for the young Duchess.

His voice rasped harshly on the hot courage of the American. "Canaille,"
he blurted apoplectically, "how dared you run down Her Grace with your
cursed car? Your touch profanes her person. Surrender her instantly."

It was a blow in the face to Carter.

Though his blood was boiling, respect for the age of the man who
addressed him restrained Calvert from voicing the