"Good evening," said Wallion, in an amicable tone. "You are right in making the most of the fleeting moments; your twenty-four hours' respite has not quite run out yet."
The Doctor was as imperturbably cool as ever but Ferail's countenance had altered indeed. His upper lip was drawn up above the gums, his eyes were burning, and the skin of his distorted, repulsive face had turned to a greenish pallor, as if his choler were choking him.
"I can do without your respite, Wallion," he said. "Did you think I could not shake off that simpleton McTuft? You had better get some other man in his place, for he is no good. Why don't you have me arrested now, eh?"
"Have you arrested? Certainly not ... your conversation is so exceedingly pleasant...."
"Enough of that," interrupted Doctor Corman, "Ferail, get that roll our visitor is holding in his hand. He has had better luck than we, he has found Robertson's notes.... I am sorry, Mr. Wallion, but they don't belong to you. Take them, Ferail."
The Greek did so, and went with great thoroughness through the pockets of his victim, though he took nothing except the Browning, which he threw on the sideboard.
Steps became audible in the corridor, and a stout but active-looking man in a well-fitting chauffeur's uniform, walked in.
"What is all this delay about?" he said sharply. "Haven't you settled it yet, boys? Who the deuce is that man there?" he added, staring at Wallion who, being now without a weapon, stood with his arms at his side and his hands in his pockets, leaning against a chair.
"He is one of those Swedes," answered Corman. "We caught him in the act of stealing some papers of Robertson's."
"My name is Maurice Wallion, at your service," said the journalist detective, with a mocking bow, "I presume I am addressing Mr. Edward Attiswood Dixon?" The name rolled glibly off his tongue.