He walked over to her as he spoke and drawing his sword, quickly cut her bonds.

“Now Mr. Bessant,” he said, turning on that gentleman, who was making moaning sounds of fear. “I believe you wish to go to hell. Come!”

He caught hold of the terrified Mr. Bessant and started to drag him toward the fire.

“Look out!” cried Alice.

Mr. Bessant had raised a horse pistol and was pointing it straight at the Duke.

There was a deafening report and then Mr. Bessant began to scream with terror. For all at once there was no Duke. Nothing but the empty air and the wild screaming following the report, and the harsh sobbing of Mr. Russell.

“I… I… hem…” said Webb and collapsed in a dead faint.

“I am tired of this,” said the Duke’s mocking voice as he suddenly materialized again.

“Come, Alice. Take my hand. Miss Fadden, hold tightly to my other hand.”

Miss Fadden went to him in a daze, wondering why she did not feel in the least frightened. Would his hand be as cold as the grave? But it was reassuringly warm and human and she clutched it tightly.

Alice held onto the other, white and shaken from the blow on her head but feeling happier than she had ever felt in her life before.

He had said he loved her.

Webb came out of his swoon with a groan. In front of his staring eyes, the Duke, flanked on either side by Alice and Miss Fadden, was backing slowly toward the outer wall. Harry Russell was sitting on the floor with his face buried in his hands and so was the only one of the villainous three who did not see the last of the ghost.

But to Mr. Bessant and Webb it was the horror of horrors. The three melted right through the wall, stood for a moment outside the window, looking in, and then slowly began to rise up.

There was a thud and a crash.

Webb had fainted again.

It was midnight. The Duke, Alice and Miss Fadden sat in the drawing room in Manchester Square, silent at last Alice had recovered quickly from the blow on her head although she was still looking white and ill. Miss Fadden’s busy hands were idle at last. The Duke was wondering what to do.

He felt sure that none of those villains would dare to start babbling about ghosts in case they ended in Bedlam, but on the other hand he did not want to leave Alice unprotected again.

“I have a confession to make,” said little Miss Fadden, suddenly breaking the silence. “I am not what I seem to be, Your Grace.”

The Duke surveyed her with a marked lack of interest. “None of us is,” he said dryly.