“The Sheik of Baalbec,” I said.
The man looked up at me again.
“Mortimer Cranch,” said I.
He fell forward on his face. It was several moments before any of us moved. Cranch spoke first. He had arisen, and now stood with his sad eyes fixed upon Estabrook, and I noticed for the first time that his mouth and lips showed suffering and, perhaps, strength.
“It is this, above all things, I hoped would never come,” said he. “You have resurrected me from the dead. I was buried. You have dug me up. Whatever good you may get from this strange meeting, make the most of it. If it will help to guard against the danger spoken of by this man you address as Doctor, I will be satisfied.”
“You dog!” cried Estabrook, hot with emotions of violence. “It is you who were responsible for the death of Judge Colfax.”
The other held out his knotted hands toward me.
“The whole story!” he cried. “Not a part. You must know the whole story.”
“Briefly,” I commanded.
He nodded, and began to pace the foreground of the Gardens of Versailles, back and forth like a tethered beast in a park. His voice was dispassionate. The narrative proceeded in a monotone. But if fiends could conceive a tale more dark, they would whisper it among themselves.