“I broke down the door—I found you there. You could not see me nor speak to me, but I knew you were not dead. The men were gone. I carried you out into the street. A policeman met me, and I told him what had happened. Then the ambulance came and we put you into it, and you were brought here. For a long time you lay like my father after he was dead. Your face was white—like snow. They had stabbed you in the side—they would have killed you if I had not broken the door.”
“Who struck me?” I asked.
“I knew,” he said, his eyes flashing, “I knew the devil was in their heads—that is why I wished to go with you. They followed us that night.”
“Who?” I asked, eagerly.
“The Count de Montalle and another man.”
My cousin's answer amazed me.
“Have you made known your suspicions?” I asked.
“No. I have been waiting to talk with you first.”
“Do not speak of it yet to any one,” I said. “Let us await developments.”
I foresaw that Rayel would only get a reputation for insanity if pressed to the point of explaining his suspicions. It seemed quite likely, also, that any futile discussion of the subject would defeat justice.