"Ah," said Pachmann, with a tightening of the brows, "a spy, then?"
"No, Admiral; a patriot like yourself."
"And your business here?"
"I have already stated it: to accept for France the services of this incomparable man."
Something flashed in Pachmann's hand, but even as he jerked up his arm, there was a soft impact, and a revolver clattered to the floor. Crochard sprang for it, seized it, and slipped it into his pocket.
"I was expecting that," he said, still smiling. "Now we can talk more at our ease," and he came into the bedroom, closed the door, placed a chair against it, and sat down. "Pray be seated, M. Vard," he added courteously to the inventor. "And you, Admiral."
Pachmann, white with pain, was nursing a numbed and nerveless hand. He sat down slowly, his eyes on the face of his antagonist.
"You should admire this weapon, Admiral," Crochard went on, extending for his inspection what looked like an ordinary revolver. "It is a most useful toy, of my own invention—or, perhaps, I would better say adapted by me from an invention of that ingenious Sieur Hyacinthe, who was pistol-maker to the Great Louis. Should you ever visit Paris, I should be charmed to show you the original at the Carnavalet. This embodies some improvements of my own. It can, as you have seen, discharge, almost noiselessly, a disabling ball; it can also, not quite so noiselessly, discharge a bullet which will penetrate your body, and which no bone will stop or turn aside. Should you open your mouth to shout, I can, still with this little implement, fling into your face a liquid which will strike you senseless before your shout can come, or a poison a single breath of which means death. And I assure you, my dear Admiral, that I shall hesitate no more than you to use any of these Agencies which may be necessary."
Pachmann listened, glowering; but, he told himself, he was not yet defeated; and he sat rubbing his hand and measuring his adversary.
"What do you imagine to be the exact nature of the services of which you speak?" he asked, at last.