“Then you are his enemy?” cried the man.
“He has many enemies,” said Frank evasively.
“But you—you have been trusted as a friend.”
“Why should I be trusted? I am an American. He is nothing to me.”
“Do you speak the truth?”
“Why should he be aught to me? He is not a countryman of mine. If France sees fit to let him rot in his prison cage, what is it to me? It is her disgrace.”
The moment he spoke those final words, Frank was sorry, for he saw he had lost an opportunity to draw the man on by deceiving him into believing he had no sympathy with the captive of Devil’s Island. He had begun well, but deception formed no part of Frank Merriwell’s nature, and it was hard for him to repress his real feelings. A strange smile came to the face of the man. He shrugged his shoulders, and nodded.
“You are right—you are discreet, Monsieur American. It may be well for you to have a care, and take no interest in the captive of whom you speak, but you have been given a trust. I have come to relieve you of that.”
“When the right man comes, he may receive what he seeks. You have failed to convince me that you are the right man.”
Frank retreated a step toward the door, keeping his eyes on the man before him, and his hand near the hidden revolver. Now Merry knew he was in danger, for he was convinced that the stranger had no right to the metal ball that was said to hold in its heart the fate of Dreyfus.