Dr. Lepardo quitted the room. Count de Guise followed him with his eyes until he had disappeared. No one spoke nor stirred until the brown old doctor returned, carrying a pair of glacé kid boots.
He placed them on the table beside the bag and pointed a long finger at a gap in one row of buttons.
"Scotland Yard can complete the set, André," he said with grim humour. "In this bag are the results of our examination. In your grate are more ashes and fragments for the English Home Office to check us by. In this bag is a complete account of how you came to Moorgate Place, knocked at Gottschalk's door and were admitted. I do not know how you had meant to kill him, but the yataghan, left on his table by Mr. Guthrie, was tempting, eh? You then commenced to collect certain letters and papers, André. You tore from his private book the page containing your little account. Then you tore out others, to blind us all. You had begun upon the letter files when you were interrupted by one entering with a key. That was fortunate. It was file G you had commenced upon, André. And one of the torn pages was G. So I knew that you were a G, too, my friend. With what you took from the safe and with the letters and other papers, you slipped down the back stair you knew of into Copthall Avenue. By my great good luck, and not by my skill, I get upon your trail. But by my skill I trap you."
The prisoner, whose handsome face now had assumed a leaden hue, whose eyes were set in a fixed stare of horror and hatred, spoke slowly, clearly.
"You talk nonsense. You taunt me, to drive me mad. I ask you—who are you? You are not Levi, you are some spy."
Dr. Lepardo, or M. Isidor Levi, removed a grey wig and a pair of spectacles and seemed by some relaxation of the facial muscles, to melt out of existence, leaving in his place a heavy-eyed man, with stained skin and thin, straggling hair.
De Guise, as though an unseen hand pushed him, stepped back—and back—and back—until a heavy oak chair prevented further retreat. There—like a mined fortress, hitherto staunch, defiant—he seemed to crumble up.
"The good God!" he whispered. "It is Victor Lemage!"
"André Legun—Chevalier d'Oysan—Comte de Guise," said the famous criminologist, "Paris wants you, but London now has a better claim. So, when I have stolen back my cheque from your pocket-book, I hand you over to London."
With the bravado of the true French criminal, Legun forced a smile to his lips.