"What the mischief have you got there?" he demanded.
Coulois touched the parcel with his yellow forefinger. Selingman saw then that the stains were of blood.
"Give me a towel," his visitor directed. "I do not want this upon my clothes."
Selingman took a towel from the stand and threw it across the room.
"You mean," he asked, dropping his voice a little, "that it is finished?"
"A quarter of an hour ago," Jean Coulois answered triumphantly. "He had just come in from luncheon and was sitting at his writing-table. It was cleverly done—wonderfully. It was all over in a moment—not a cry. You came to the right place, indeed! And now I go to the country," Coulois continued. "I have a motor-bicycle outside. I make my way up into the hills to bury this little memento. There is a farmhouse up in the mountains, a lonely spot enough, and a girl there who says what I tell her. It may be as well to be able to say that I have been there for déjeuner. These little things, monsieur—ah, well! we who understand think of them. And since I am here," he added, holding out his hand—
Selingman nodded and took out his pocket-book. He counted out the notes in silence and passed them over. The assassin dropped them into his pocket.
"Au revoir, Monsieur le Gros!" he exclaimed, waving his hand. "We meet to-night, I trust. I will show you a new dance—the Dance of Death, I shall call it. I seem calm, but I am on fire with excitement. To-night I shall dance as though quicksilver were in my feet. You must not miss it. You must come, monsieur."
He closed the door behind him and swaggered off down the passage. Selingman stood, for a moment, perfectly still. It was a strange thing, but two big tears were in his eyes. Then he heaved a great sigh and shook his head.
"It is part of the game," he said softly to himself, "all part of the game."