“There has been a man following me about; I thought he was interested in the Claibornes. He’s here—I saw him at the Monte Rosa to-night. God!”
He dropped his hand from Durand’s arm and struck the table fiercely with his clenched hand.
“John Armitage—John Armitage! I heard his name in Florence.”
His eyes were snapping with excitement, and amazement grew in his face.
“Who is John Armitage?” demanded Durand sharply; but Chauvenet stared at him in stupefaction for a tense moment, then muttered to himself:
“Is it possible? Is it possible?” and his voice was hoarse and his hand trembled as he picked up the cigarette case.
“My dear Jules, you act as though you had seen a ghost. Who the devil is Armitage?”
Chauvenet glanced about the room cautiously, then bent forward and whispered very low, close to Durand’s ear:
“Suppose he were the son of the crazy Karl! Suppose he were Frederick Augustus!”
“Bah! It is impossible! What is your man Armitage like?” asked Durand irritably.