Bows were exchanged, and then the latter produced some papers.
“I have come, monsieur, respecting the man Barron-Dale,” he said in very good English. “As you know, monsieur, we have been in communication with the English authorities, and, as we have reported to you from time to time, there has been a reluctance on their part to investigate the matter.”
“Yes, I have heard all this,” said Stratton, trying to be calm.
“They were disposed to treat him as an impostor, and at last sent us word definitely that Barron-Dale and Henderson certainly died in their attempt to escape from your great prison. The correspondence has gone on, monsieur, till now, and I believe that the English authorities were about to send an officer to investigate the matter; but, as you have been informed, the man has been growing worse and worse while ill in the infirmary of the prison at Barville. Yesterday he had a bad attack—a fit.”
He paused for a moment or two, looking gravely at Stratton.
“The difficulty is solved now, monsieur,” said the officer gravely. “He did not recover from the fit. Our doctors have found the cause of those attacks—a pistol bullet was imbedded close to the brain.”
“The bullet from his own pistol,” thought Stratton. “The shot he meant for me.”
A few minutes after Stratton left the officer, and went straight to where Myra was waiting, trembling with excitement.
“There is some fresh peril, Malcolm,” she cried as she caught his hand.
“No, dearest,” he said slowly; “the last cloud has passed away.”