"You are as a feather to a rock," said Gilbert Bidaud, with a gesture of contempt, "and I am but amusing myself with you. I stand quietly here for a reason I may presently explain. This house has lost a master." He glanced at his dead brother. "This house has gained a master." He touched his breast triumphantly. "It is but a change, a law of nature. My brother and I have not met for twenty years. He had a good motive for avoiding me; he fled from Switzerland with money of mine, and now, through death, he is compelled to make restitution."
"It is false," cried Basil, chivalrously defending the friend he had lost. "If you are Gilbert Bidaud it was you who attempted to rob him of his inheritance."
"Ah, ah. Did my estimable brother open his heart entirely to you?"
"Sufficiently to reveal your true character--even to the last words you spoke to him before he left Switzerland."
"Favour me with them. It may be excused if I do not faithfully recall them at this distance of time."
"'One day,' you said to him 'I will be even with you. Remember my words--dead or alive, I will be even with you."
"I remember. My words were prophetic. Fate was on my side, justice was on my side. They whispered to me, 'Wait.' I waited. And now--look there! So, so, my ingenious young friend; you know the whole story."
"It was related to me by your brother."
"By this lump of clay! It would be the act of a fool to deal tenderly by you; and I, as you may have already learned, am no fool. How came my brother by his death?"
"How came he by his death?" stammered Basil, puzzled by the question, and not seeing the drift of it.