“In Bornier’s?” he questioned, doubtfully.
“Yes, sir the place that is called the Red Flag!”
“Why, it’s impossible.”
“How so?”
“Bornier never has any desperadoes around him. Those chaps are mild as new milk. Bornier keeps them there for show purposes, and gives them fictitious records for all sorts of crimes, but never one of them all has committed a crime beyond the most petty roguery. Do you think the police would permit such a place to exist if Bornier’s pickpockets, burglars, anarchists, and murderers were what he represents them to be? Oh, you have made a mistake! You were in some other place, or you may have been taking too much wine.”
Wynne insisted. After a time he induced the officer to accompany him to Bornier’s. They were readily admitted.
A very tough crowd was gathered in both rooms, but Wynne saw but a single face that he had noticed there before. Durant, Lenoir, Vaugirad and Montparnasse were gone. Mademoiselle Mystere was gone. Bornier alone was there. He received them smilingly, and he denied having ever seen Wynne before.
“My dear friend,” he said, with a deprecating smile and a shrug, “you are so very much mistaken. These people nearly all have been here one or two hours. Ask them. There has been no fight here. I know nothing of this young man for whom you search.”
Wynne became furious.
“Look here!” he cried: “you may convince this officer, but I know better. This does not drop here. I plainly see I can do nothing to-night; but you will hear from me again!”