“Not even when we were coming here,” growled Browning resentfully.
“Well, I’ve told you now, you know.”
“Not everything,” said Jack eagerly. “Go on. How did you escape?”
“Fought my way out through dynamiters, aided by the woman. The men were in a room where a Russian manufacturer of infernal machines was explaining how his devilish inventions worked. He had all his bombs spread out on a table. I got through that room, and out of the building, and I was lucky. What happened behind me, I can only surmise. It is certain one of those bombs was exploded, and it exploded others. The building was wrecked, the anarchists were killed, and among them was found the body of the woman who had saved me, their queen. She is buried at Mont Parnasse, and I paid for the stone that marks her grave.”
Browning struggled to his feet, and stood there, colossal, imposing, outraged, his hands on his hips.
“I have considered you my friend,” he said; “but I feel like punching you now! Why, you even trotted us round all day, and never once mentioned this!”
“I didn’t want to bore you.”
“Bore us—bore us with a yarn like that! Why, it’s exciting enough to furnish a plot for a novel! And you actually passed through such an adventure here in Paris?”
“Didn’t I say so? Do you think I’m drawing the long bow?”
“No, but——”