“Never.”
“Then you have not been long in Paris. I am Claude Bruant, but I have another name, given me in honor of the work these hands have done. I am more often called The Strangler!”
“A very pretty name for a man like you, and most appropriate,” said the American youth, with unruffled coolness. “I should say it fitted you very well. But there are ropes that strangle, as well as hands, and in France the guillotine is sometimes used by the executioner. Sometime you may discover how very beautifully it works!”
The lips of the man curled back from his teeth in a wolfish smile. The nerve of this youth, scarcely more than a boy, was too much for him. If he had thought to terrify Frank Merriwell, he realized now that he had failed utterly. For all of his anger and disappointment, which were betrayed by that wolfish smile, he could not help admiring the lad who had remained unruffled by all he had said.
That the American appreciated the situation was certain, for he had been keen to scent danger, and his language had shown that he possessed an unusually acute brain. The Strangler knew little of Americans, save what he had seen of them in Paris, and he had fancied that they could be intimidated with ease. He had expected to become more blunt and direct in his threats, but now he felt that it would be useless.
Still, he was angry, and further threats came rolling to his tongue without being summoned.
“You are very clever, Monsieur American!” he sneered; “but there is such a thing as being too clever. Do you know that?”
“Without doubt, you are right, Monsieur Strangler. You have shown considerable cleverness yourself, but you are bound to overstep the limit in time, and then——Well, you know.”
“Ah, monsieur, I fear you will not live to see that time!”
“There is no reason why I should not, for I am much younger than you.”