“The assassins cannot destroy every friend of Dreyfus, and justice shall triumph at last.”
“But are you willing to be a sacrifice?”
“No! Still I have lived, and my years to come are not many, at most. If I fall, I have faith to believe that it will mark the turning-point in favor of the prisoner of Devil’s Island. I believe that somehow, sometime, France shall emerge from the clouds and be purged of the stain upon her.”
It gave Frank Merriwell a sensation he had never before experienced to be sitting there before the Café de la Paix, in the heart of Paris, calmly speaking with a man who had been doomed to death by a mysterious band of assassins, and who knew that, were the assassins to carry out their fearful threat, he had not many hours more to live. All around them was life and pleasure, and nothing but the seriousness of the duke could impress Merriwell with the real horror of the situation.
“This sign of which you speak—what is it?”
Edmond Laforce felt in his pocket and brought something forth. This he placed upon the table.
It was a metal star, dark-red in color, with points numbered from one to seven. Upon it were the words, “Ten days.” Beneath the words appeared the dreadful death-machine of France, the guillotine. Frank gazed on the blood-red star with deep interest.
“This,” said the duke, with forced calmness, “is the sign of the Black Brothers. The seven points of the star represent the seven members of the assassin band.”
“You have kept it!” exclaimed Merry. “Why didn’t you throw the thing away?”
“What good? It’s work was done when I received it.”