Rohscheimer shakily wrote the words, "Vengence is mine."
"No 'a,'" cried Lemage triumphantly, "no 'a'! Of all the stupid pigs I am he. But I had not given you the credit of such nerve, M. Rohscheimer. I had forgotten how once you lived the rough life in South Africa. It is so? I did not think you had the courage to write—though wobbly—those lying words in presence of the dead Gottschalk. Why did you do it, you bad, foolish fellow? The yataghan already was stuck in the desk, eh? That Legun is a fury when the blood thirst is upon him, when the big vein throb. And you saw the blank paper? Yes? Or you feared that you—you—the mighty Julius might be suspect? Yes, a little? Principally you hope that this will spur the police and that he will hang. You prefer that the real one—who slays your partner—shall go free, if he can be blackened. You throw sand in the eye of Justice, eh? Well—you have influence; you shall use it to get yourself made Scotch-free. Very good. You will now write in a few words how all this is. That or—I have men outside. It is a public removal to—Good, you will write."
At about that hour when, at thousands of breakfast tables, horrified readers learned that Séverac Bablon's Arabs had committed a ghastly crime in Moorgate Street, a cart drove up to New Scotland Yard, and two green-aproned individuals both of whom would have been improved artistically by a clean shave, dragged a heavy packing-case into the office, said it contained curiosities from Bedford Court Mansions and was for Inspector Sheffield.
When, half an hour later, the unwieldy box had been opened, out glared a bound and gagged man, upon whose left temple there pulsed and throbbed a dark blue vein!
Detailed evidence proving that this was the murderer of Gottschalk, his record, his measurements, his thumb-prints, his boots, a number of tubes containing scraps of stained leather, a number containing ashes, and all neatly labelled together with a written confession, signed "Julius Rohscheimer," to the authorship of the words "Vengeance is mine" were also in this box. Finally, there was the following note:
"Dear Inspector Sheffield,
"I enclose herewith André Legun, the man who murdered Paul Gottschalk, together with sufficient evidence to ensure a conviction, and completely to exculpate myself. I claim no credit. We both are indebted to M. Victor Lemage, who not only has surpassed his own brilliant records in the conduct of this case, but who kindly assisted me to carry the result of his labours into the office at New Scotland Yard. We both regretted our inability to see you personally.
"Séverac Bablon."