He held out his hand as he spoke.
Frank Merriwell looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, and then quietly said:
“Justice has often called in vain.”
He did not offer to take the little ball from his pocket and pass it to the man, for the signal was not complete. They stood there in silence, looking at each other, the young American cool and self-possessed, the Frenchman stern-faced and frowning. Frank fancied that the man showed disappointment.
Once more the stranger repeated the words:
“Justice calls!”
Frank was tempted to turn his back, and walk out of the place without another word. He had vowed to hold fast to the little ball till the proper signal was given, and something seemed to tell him that this unknown man who sought possession of it had no right to claim it.
After some seconds, the stranger said:
“Justice should not call in vain to you, for you have what may give justice to one who is in sore need of it. Come, monsieur, I am waiting.”
“There is another who is waiting in an iron cage. It seems that the ways of justice are so slow that his short life may be spent in waiting.”