“Yes,” and the servant swung back the door of his car. “Wait,” called Maynard over his shoulder to his chauffeur and entered the building. Not troubling to have his name telephoned up he hastened to the elevator and told the boy to take him to La Montagne’s apartment. His ring at the bell of the apartment was answered by La Montagne whose face lighted at sight of his visitor.
“Most welcome,” exclaimed the Frenchman. “Come right in,” and he led the way across the tiny entrance hall in the room which, with a bed in an alcove, did for sitting room and bedroom. La Montagne dragged forward a chair and perched himself on the only other one the room boasted and then addressed Maynard in his own language.
“We are old friends; let us talk at ease,” he began. “Who is James Palmer?”
“A Washington architect,” was Maynard’s concise reply.
“Of independent means?”
“I understand he is quite wealthy, but I really know very little about the man. Why are you inquiring about him, René?” and Maynard looked at his companion with quickened interest.
“Because,” explained La Montagne frankly. “I have puzzled much over the scene before the door of Mr. Palmer’s apartment last night. Why did you and he show such interest in my simple action of stopping to inquire the way to Madame Van Ness’ apartment?”
Maynard studied the Frenchman as he considered the question. It was surely only fair to answer it; La Montagne could not defend himself until informed of the charges against him—after all, what were they? His appearance at the door of Palmer’s apartment immediately following the attempted assassination of Burnham could be a coincidence only; stranger things than that had happened in Maynard’s experience. After all the most serious phase of the affair was Burnham’s half delirious statement that La Montagne had “tried to get him.” A man making a charge had to prove it; therefore, it was up to Burnham to substantiate his statement with evidence, and La Montague’s assertion that he had seen the taxi-driver leave the apartment a second before he himself reached the door was possible of confirmation as soon as he located the chauffeur. As it stood, both Burnham and La Montagne had made unsupported statements—and each man’s word was as good as the other’s until proved a liar.
“Some one took a pot shot at Burnham as we sat in Palmer’s apartment,” stated Maynard slowly. “The shot was evidently fired from the balcony into the room.”
La Montagne straightened up and gazed intently at Maynard. “Yes, continue——” he urged.