But the public soon would know. For some days, the papers had been announcing the approaching arrival of Beautrelet. The struggle was on the point of recommencing; and, this time, it would be implacable on the part of the young man, who was burning to take his revenge. And, as it happened, my attention, just then, was drawn to his name, printed in capitals. The Grand Journal headed its front page with the following paragraph:
We have persuaded
M. ISIDORE BEAUTRELET
to give us the first right of printing his revelations. To-morrow, Tuesday, before the police themselves are informed, the Grand Journal will publish the whole truth of the Ambrumésy mystery.
“That’s interesting, eh? What do you think of it, my dear chap?”
I started from my chair. There was some one sitting beside me, some one I did not know. I cast my eyes round for a weapon. But, as my visitor’s attitude appeared quite inoffensive, I restrained myself and went up to him.
He was a young man with strongly-marked features, long, fair hair and a short, tawny beard, divided into two points. His dress suggested the dark clothes of an English clergyman; and his whole person, for that matter, wore an air of austerity and gravity that inspired respect.
“Who are you?” I asked. And, as he did not reply, I repeated, “Who are you? How did you get in? What are you here for?”
He looked at me and said:
“Don’t you know me?”