And so it happened that Mr. Julius Rohscheimer, in Park Lane, was just arising when his man brought him a card:
Detective-Inspector Sheffield
C.I.D.,
New Scotland Yard.
Rohscheimer, who looked as though he had spent a poor night, ordered that Inspector Sheffield be shown up without delay. Immediately afterwards there came in a tall, black-bearded man, wearing blue spectacles, an old rain-coat, and a dilapidated silk hat. The drive, though short, had been long enough to enable Victor Lemage, secure from observation behind the drawn blinds of Séverac Bablon's big car, to merge his personality into that of another man, distinct from Dr. Lepardo—unlike M. Levi.
"Who are you?" blustered Rohscheimer, changing colour, and drawing a brilliant dressing-gown more closely about him. "Who the blazes are you?"
"Ssh! I am Inspector Sheffield—disguised. You will excuse me if, even here, I continue to impersonate an eccentric French character. You place yourself within the reach of the law, my friend. You lay yourself open to the suspicion of murder."
Julius Rohscheimer swallowed noisily. His flabby face assumed a dingy hue; his eyes protruded to an unpleasant degree.
"Here, upon this, my card, write the words, 'Vengeance is mine.'"
Rohscheimer rose unsteadily; his puffy hands groped as if, feeling himself slipping, he sought for something to lay hold upon.
"I swear——"
"Write!"