“A fake, is it? Well, strike me! Madame Tussaud ain’t in it. It’s the living spit of him, gown and all. But them curtains, Count!”
“Oh, confound the curtains! We are wasting our time, and there is none too much. He can lag us over this stone.”
“The deuce he can!”
“But he’ll let us slip if we only tell him where the swag is.”
“What! Give it up? Give up a hundred thousand quid?”
“It’s one or the other.”
Merton scratched his short-cropped pate.
“He’s alone in there. Let’s do him in. If his light were out we should have nothing to fear.”
The Count shook his head.
“He is armed and ready. If we shot him we could hardly get away in a place like this. Besides, it’s likely enough that the police know whatever evidence he has got. Hallo! What was that?”
There was a vague sound which seemed to come from the window. Both men sprang round, but all was quiet. Save for the one strange figure seated in the chair, the room was certainly empty.
“Something in the street,” said Merton. ‘Now look here, guv’nor, you’ve got the brains. Surely you can think a way out of it. If slugging is no use then it’s up to you.”
“I’ve fooled better men than he,” the Count answered. “The stone is here in my secret pocket. I take no chances leaving it about. It can be out of England to-night and cut into four pieces in Amster-
