“Is Yelland Mace still living?” urged David Arden.
“Those features, in life, you will never behold, Sir.”
“He is dead. You said that you took that mask from among the dead. Is he dead?”
“No, Sir; not actually dead, but under a strange condition. Bah; Don't you see I have a secret? Do you prize very highly learning where he is?”
“Very highly, provided he may be secured and brought to trial; and you, Baron, must arrange to give your testimony to prove his identity.”
“Yes; that would be indispensible,” said the baron, whose eyes were sweeping the room from corner to corner, fiercely and swiftly. “Without me you can never lift the veil; without me you can never unearth your stiff and pale Yelland Mace, nor without me identify and hang him.”
“I rely upon your aid, Baron,” said Mr. Arden, who was becoming agitated. “Your trouble shall be recompensed; you may depend upon my honour.”
“I am running a certain risk. I am not a fool, though, like little Lebas. I am not to be made away with like a kitten; and once I move in this matter, I burn my ships behind me, and return to my splendid practice, under no circumstances, ever again.”
The baron's pallid face looked more bloodless, his accent was fiercer, and his countenance more ruffianly as he uttered all this.
“I understood, Baron, that you had quite made up your mind to retire within a very few weeks,” said David Arden.