“Canada. Wild North West.”
“Are you sure you were not in prison? A French prison?”
Automatically, Superintendent Battle moved a step nearer the door, as if to cut off a retreat that way, but Anthony showed no signs of doing anything dramatic.
Instead, he stared at the French detective, and then burst out laughing.
“My poor Lemoine. It is a monomania with you! You do indeed see King Victor everywhere. So you fancy that I am that interesting gentleman?”
“Do you deny it?”
Anthony brushed a fleck of ash from his coat sleeve.
“I never deny anything that amuses me,” he said lightly. “But the accusation is really too ridiculous.”
“Ah! you think so?” The Frenchman leant forward. His face was twitching painfully, and yet he seemed perplexed and baffled—as though something in Anthony’s manner puzzled him. “What if I tell you, Monsieur, that this time—this time—I am out to get King Victor, and nothing shall stop me!”
“Very laudable,” was Anthony’s comment. “You’ve been out to get him before, though, haven’t you, Lemoine? And he’s got the better of you. Aren’t you afraid that that may happen again? He’s a slippery fellow, by all accounts.”