“Your end will come soon!”
“Not till I have delivered the ball into the proper hands, I trust.”
“That ball will destroy you!”
“What, after the wretched failures made by the Strangler and yourself? Oh, I am beginning to enjoy this, I assure you. I had thought Paris rather tame, but you have made it seem real lively, and have added zest to my visit here.”
De Villefort was at a loss for words. Never in all his life before this day had he encountered a person like this cool American lad. He realized now that Frank Merriwell was something more than a boy—was something more than an ordinary man.
“Come!” cried Frank commandingly; “get up! You are able to do so now.”
Merry walked to the door, and flung it open. With some difficulty, De Villefort struggled to his feet, aided by the partition. He sidled toward the door in a manner that was rather laughable, and Frank followed him up.
“You shall shed tears of blood for this!” snarled the Frenchman.
“All right,” cheerfully said Merry. “I’ll lay in a fresh supply of handkerchiefs, so that I may be ready for the sorrowful occasion.”
“Your life shall be the forfeit!”