With a convulsive bound Hardy swung round; Dick and Tom being too petrified to move.
“Ah, non, non, de Smirnoff, say not so,” cried de Morny, deep feeling in his shaking voice.
The Russian had entered unnoticed some minutes before by a door communicating with an inner room. Too shocked for speech, and sick at heart, Dick gazed at him. This—this was the man who had saved him from a horrible death—and he had repaid the debt by hounding him to the gallows. But for his intervention the criminal would have gone undetected.
“And why not, Henri?” asked de Smirnoff, quietly. “I cannot have you, mon ami, arrested for my crime. And so, Monsieur,” to Hardy, “you found my lucky piece and traced it here—I do not know how you did it, but it was clever work. I thought I had covered my tracks.”
“Hold, sir,” said Hardy, his sense of fair play causing him to interrupt. “I must warn you that everything you say will be used against you.”
De Smirnoff shrugged his shoulders. “It can make no difference.” Then, as Hardy pulled out a pair of handcuffs, his face flushed hotly. “Not that—my God!—not that; I will come quietly with you.”
At a sign from Dick, Hardy reluctantly put them back in his pocket.
“My warm thanks, Messieurs,” said de Smirnoff, slowly, “for the great kindness; and I have another favor to ask of you. My host, Count de Morny, knows nothing of this affair. I would like, if possible, to explain my share in it to him and to you. It was no sordid murder. Will you not sit a moment?”
Dick held a whispered conversation with Tom and Hardy, and then turned to de Smirnoff.
“We agree to listen, Count.”