"At last!" he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. "Come up into my room,
Spencer. We can talk there."
He rang for the lift, and as they ascended he watched the other
anxiously. Spencer was looking pale and disturbed. His eyes showed signs
of sleeplessness, and he had not the air of a man who has good news to
impart. As soon as they were inside the room he locked the door.
"Duncombe," he said, "there is a train which leaves Paris for London at
four o'clock. You must catch it--if you are allowed to. Don't look like
that, man. I tell you you've got to do it. If you are in Paris to-night
you will be in prison."
"For what offence?" Duncombe asked.
"For the murder of Mademoiselle Flossie. They are training the witnesses
now. The whole thing is as easy as A B C. They can prove you so guilty
that not even your best friend would doubt it. Pack your clothes, man,
or ring for the valet."
Duncombe hesitated, but he, too, was pale.
"Are you serious, Spencer?" he asked.
"I am so serious," Spencer answered, "that unless you obey me I will not
move another finger in this matter. You lose nothing by going. All that
a human being can do I will do! But you lose your life, or, at any rate,
your liberty if you stay.
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