"It is finished, Victor," he said, dropping his affected manner and speaking with an exaggerated low Paris accent. "I am glad it was you, and not some stupid policeman of England who took me. Well, who cares? I have had a short life but a merry one. You know, Victor, that my misfortune in being the son of an aristocrat has pursued me always. I have such refined tastes, and such a skill with the cards. You recall the little house near the fortifications? But the inevitable run of bad luck came. One question. Why"—he glanced at the Russian-looking man with something like fear creeping again into his bold eyes—"why do you hunt me down?"
The black beard and moustache were pulled off in a second by their wearer, revealing a face of severely classic beauty. Lawrence Guthrie stared hard.
"Mr. Guthrie," said the whilom Russian, "behold me at your mercy. You know me innocent of one, at least, of the sins ascribed to me. I am Séverac Bablon."
Guthrie hesitated for one tremendous moment; he looked from the handsome face of the most notorious man in Europe to that of his companion who wore the tweed suit, and whom he knew to be H. T. Sheard, the well-known member of the Gleaner staff. His decision was made. He stretched out his hand and took that of Séverac Bablon.
"You ask," said the latter sternly to Legun, "why we have hunted you down. I answer—first, in the sacred interest of Justice; second, because you imputed your vile crime to me."
"What! To you? No! never!"
Victor Lemage's eyelids lifted quickly.
"Spell vengeance."
"V-e-n-g-e-a-n-c-e."
"My friends," said Lemage, reaching for the wide-brimmed hat of Dr. Lepardo, "I all but have spoiled this, my greatest case, by a stupid blunder. I have an early call to make. Advance your packing in my absence. I shall shortly return."