"Not the slightest use," Forsyth answered, almost laughing, yet more than ever puzzled by the _naïveté_ of the question. "I have been at considerable pains to deprive you of your bogus bonds, and it is hardly likely, Mr. Ziegler, that I am going to restore your power over the Duke of Beaumanoir. He is a brave man, and doesn't fear death. You can't hurt him that way; but with these forgeries in your possession you might make some sort of a story good against him. Without them, anything you could say would be an idle tale."
"That is not the point, believe me, Mr. Forsyth," the shrill voice quavered almost pleadingly. "The contents of that package took three of my most skilled colleagues months to prepare. They are proud of their work--love those forged bonds as if they were their children. To their pride in their work I should owe my life, if you would give them back to me."
Forsyth could hardly believe his ears. Could this tremulous dotard be the redoubtable master of crime whom he and his uncle had been fighting throughout the last crowded week? "I really don't see how your not particularly valuable life can depend on your possession of a lot of bogus bonds," he said, with genuine curiosity. The appeal to his pity filled him with vague uneasiness, the alleged reason for it being so utterly absurd. Yet Ziegler was ready with an explanation, more or less plausible.
"My associates will kill me for being duped out of their handiwork," he answered, glancing fearfully to the garden entrance. "They would perhaps pardon the miscarriage of the main scheme, but to have parted with material which might yet have been turned to account will seal my doom--that, and having allowed you to survive your triumph over us."
Forsyth saw now--or thought he saw--why the murderous crew had been ordered off in ignorance of the miscarriage. It was to enable Ziegler to make this desperate appeal for the restitution of the bogus bonds, so that he might "save his face" with his comrades. It would be ample excuse in their eyes--flatter their vanity, as their tottering chief had hinted--if he had himself been deceived by the fabricated securities. But they had seen him examine the parcel; they would know that he had made the discovery on the spot, and yet had not decreed instant death to their successful opponent. One flaw in this chain of reasoning Forsyth, himself no casuist, overlooked. It did not occur to him that the old practitioner with the white beard and the squeaky voice could have put himself right with his companions if he had hounded them on to him the moment he knew he was fingering tissue-paper and not United States Treasury bonds, good, bad, or indifferent.