He pushed open the bedroom door.  The light within was very dim.  The two men hidden behind the tapestry could hear him moving about the room muttering curses to himself.  Presently the light of the lamp was shifted from one end of the room to the other.  Through the opening between the two curtains Blakeney could just see Heriot’s back as he placed the lamp at a convenient angle upon his desk, divested himself of his overcoat and muffler, then sat down and drew pen and paper closer to him.  He was leaning forward, his elbow resting upon the table, his fingers fidgeting with his long, lank hair.  He had closed the door when he entered, and from the other room now the voices of his friends sounded confused and muffled.  Now and then an exclamation:  “Double!” “Je ... tiens!” “Cinq-deux!” an oath, a laugh, the click of glasses and bottles came out more clearly; but the rest of the time these sounds were more like a droning accompaniment to the scraping of Heriot’s pen upon the paper when he finally began to write his letter.

Two minutes went by and then two more.  The scratching of Heriot’s pen became more rapid as he appeared to be more completely immersed in his work.  Behind the curtain the two men had been waiting:  Blakeney ready to act, Ffoulkes equally ready to interpret the slightest signal from his chief.

The next minute Blakeney had stolen out of the alcove, and his two hands—­so slender and elegant looking, and yet with a grip of steel—­had fastened themselves upon Heriot’s mouth, smothering within the space of a second the cry that had been half-uttered.  Ffoulkes was ready to complete the work of rendering the man helpless:  one handkerchief made an efficient gag, another tied the ankles securely.  Heriot’s own coat-sleeves supplied the handcuffs, and the blankets off the bed tied around his legs rendered him powerless to move.  Then the two men lifted this inert mass on to the bed and Ffoulkes whispered anxiously:  “Now, what next?”

Heriot’s overcoat, hat, and muffler lay upon a chair.  Sir Percy, placing a warning finger upon his lips, quickly divested himself of his own coat, slipped that of Heriot on, twisted the muffler round his neck, hunched up his shoulders, and murmuring:  “Now for a bit of luck!” once more lowered the light of the lamp and then went to the door.

“Rondeau!” he called.  “Hey, Rondeau!” And Sir Percy himself was surprised at the marvellous way in which he had caught the very inflection of Heriot’s voice.

“Hey, Rondeau!” came from one of the players at the table, “the citizen-deputy is calling you!”

They were all sitting round the table:  two men intent upon their game of dominoes, the other two watching with equal intentness.  Rondeau came shuffling out of the antichambre.  His face, by the dim light of the oil lamp, looked jaundiced with fear.

“Rondeau, you fool, where are you?” called Blakeney once again.