Instinctively Lenoir divined that his betrayer was the young Englishman.
No sooner did this conclusion force itself upon him than all thought of personal danger vanished from his mind, and he was possessed by one sole idea, one single desire. Revenge!
He lost sight of the peril in which he ran, but with a cry like the roar of a wounded lion he sprang upon the traitor.
A brawny, powerful fellow was Pierre Lenoir, and Herbert Murray was but a puny thing in his grasp.
"Hands off!" exclaimed Murray, in desperation.
Lenoir growled, but said nothing, as he shook him much as a terrier does a rat.
Before the police could interfere in the spy's behalf, Lenoir held him with one hand at arm's length, while with the other he prepared to deliver a fearful blow.
The energy of despair seized on the hapless traitor, and wrenching himself free from the coiner's grasp, he fled.
Pierre Lenoir stood staring about him a second.
Then he made after him.