“It is,” laconically.
There was no eluding a statement so bald as this. Beauvais sat upright. “To call me a liar is a privilege which I extend to no man.”
“I did not call you a liar,” undisturbed. “You wrote it down yourself, and I simply agreed to it. A duel? Well, I shall not fight you. Dueling is obsolete, and it never demonstrated the right or wrong of a cause. Since my part in this affair is one of neutrality, and since to gain that knowledge was the object of your invitation, I will take my leave of you.”
He rose and looked at the porcelain clock. As he did so his gaze rested on a small photograph standing at the side of it. He scanned it eagerly. It was a face of dark Castilian beauty. He turned and looked at Beauvais long and earnestly. There was an answering gaze, an immobility of countenance. Maurice experienced a slight shock. The haze over his memory was dispersed. The whole scene, in which this man loomed in the foreground, came back vividly.
“Your stare, Monsieur, is annoying.”
“I shouldn't wonder,” replied Maurice, leaning against the mantel.
“Do me the honor to explain it.”
Maurice, never dreaming of the trap, fell head foremost into it. “I have traveled a good deal,” he began. “I have been—even to South America.”
“Ah!” This ejaculation expressed nothing. In fact, Beavais was smiling. There was a sinister something behind that smile, but Maurice was unobservant.
He went on. “Yes, to South America. I was there in a diplomatic capacity, during one of the many revolutions. This country was the paradise of adventurers, the riff-raff of continental social outcasts. I distinctly remember the leader of this revolution. Up to the very last day, Captain Urquijo was the confidential friend of the president whom he was about to ruin. Through the president's beautiful daughter Urquijo picked up his threads and laid his powder train. The woman loved him as women sometimes love rascals. The president was to be assassinated and his rival installed. Captain Urquijo was to be made General of the armies.