"I think so, Monsieur Picquot."
At the name Baskinelli turned livid. He made a movement as if he would lunge at the throat of Owen, but his fury withered under the glassy smile.
"So—we met in Paris?"
"Once upon a time—a little incident in the Rue St. Jeanne. A young woman was concerned in that incident—and was not heard of afterward."
"And you are trying to blackmail me for the death of Marie Disart!
Ha! That is a jest," cried Baskinelli.
"I am trying to do nothing of the kind. I simply reminded you of the little affair. I know as well as you that it was all beautifully cleared up, and a man is still in prison for it. I know you are as safe here as that man is in jail, Signor Baskinelli."
"What are you talking about, then?"
"The little woman that so charmed you here. I remarked merely that those who are captivated can capture."
"Not in this country—not among the Puritans. One must be good— and unhappy."
"You haven't forgotten your little friends, Mario, and Di Palma and Vitrio? They are all respected residents of New York. We know, where they might be found."