Midway in the forenoon a card was brought Frank. On it was engraved the name, “Murat de Villefort.” Beneath the name was written, with a lead-pencil, “Justice calls!” Murat de Villefort proved to be a tall, slender, supple-appearing man, with a coal-black mustache and imperial. His face was rather harsh and stern, but his manners were pleasant and acceptable.
Frank surveyed the man critically, wondering if he could be another impostor.
“Monsieur Merriwell,” said the visitor, “I trust you will be glad of the opportunity to get rid of your charge.”
“Of what do you speak?” asked Frank evasively.
“I speak of that for which I have called.”
“You will have to speak still more plainly, monsieur.”
“Excuse me,” said M. de Villefort coldly. “I fear you are demanding too much. You have but to discharge your duty, and deliver it into my hands.”
“When I am certain it will be discharging my duty, I may deliver the ‘it’ of which you speak. You are not the first who has sought it.”
“I am not?”
“No.”