Armitage had assumed the existence of a front stairway, and now that he was launched upon an unexpected adventure, he was in a humor to prolong it for a moment, even at further risk.  He crept along a dark passage to the front door, found and turned the key to provide himself with a ready exit, then, as he heard the men from above stumble over the prostrate Servian, he bounded up the front stairway, gained the second floor, then the third, and readily found by its light the room that he had observed earlier from the outside.

Below there was smothered confusion and the crackling of matches as Durand and Chauvenet sought to grasp the unexpected situation that confronted them.  The big servant, Armitage knew, would hardly be able to clear matters for them at once, and he hurriedly turned over the packets of papers that lay on the table.  They were claims of one kind and another against several South and Central American republics, chiefly for naval and military supplies, and he merely noted their general character.  They were, on the face of it, certified accounts in the usual manner of business.  On the back of each had been printed with a rubber stamp the words: 

“Vienna, Paris, Washington. 
Chauvenet et Durand.”

Armitage snatched up the coat which Chauvenet had so carefully placed on the back of his chair, ran his hands through the pockets, found them empty, then gathered the garment tightly in his hands, laughed a little to himself to feel papers sewn into the lining, and laughed again as he tore the lining loose and drew forth a flat linen envelope brilliant with three seals of red wax.

Steps sounded below; a man was running up the back stairs; and from the kitchen rose sounds of mighty groanings and cursings in the heavy gutturals of the Servian, as he regained his wits and sought to explain his plight.

Armitage picked up a chair, ran noiselessly to the head of the back stairs, and looked down upon Chauvenet, who was hurrying up with a flaming candle held high above his head, its light showing anxiety and fear upon his face.  He was half-way up the last flight, and Armitage stood in the dark, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and something, too, of humor.  Then he spoke—­in French—­in a tone that imitated the cool irony he had noted in Durand’s tone: 

“A few murders more or less!  But Von Stroebel was hardly a fair mark, dearest Jules!”

With this he sent the chair clattering down the steps, where it struck Jules Chauvenet’s legs with a force that carried him howling lustily backward to the second landing.

Armitage turned and sped down the front stairway, hearing renewed clamor from the rear and cries of rage and pain from the second story.  In fumbling for the front door he found a hat, and, having lost his own, placed it upon his head, drew his inverness about his shoulders, and went quickly out.  A moment later he slipped the catch in the wall door and stepped into the boulevard.