CHAPTER XX

The Coup de Grâce

The longer the silence grew, the more difficult Gerard de Montignac felt it was to break. He had entered the room, clothed upon with authority, sensible of it and prepared to demand explanations and exact retribution. But he had now a curious uneasiness. His authority seemed to be slipping from him. Opposite to him without a movement of his body and his face still as a mask, stood le grand serieux, as half in jest, half in earnest, he used to label Paul Ravenel. He had not a doubt of his identity. But le grand serieux was altogether in earnest le grand serieux at this moment.

A quiet, tragic figure, drawn to his full height, wearing his dignity with the ease of an accustomed garment, when he should be—what? Crushed under shame, faltering excuses, cringing! Gerard de Montignac said to himself: “Why, I might be the culprit! It might be for me to offer an explanation, or to try to.” He almost wondered if he was the culprit, so complete was his discomfort, and so utterly he felt himself at a disadvantage. He whipped himself to a sneer.

“I am afraid that I am not very welcome, Si Tayeb Reha,” he said, speaking in French.

“Si Tayeb Reha! Yes! That is my name,” returned the Moor, in the Mohgrebbin dialect of Arabic.

“Alias Ben Sedira of Meknes. Alias Paul Ravenel.”

The Moor frowned in perplexity.