“Who else?” asked Peret.
“Well,” cried Deweese, impatiently, “why do you beat around the bush so much? Be definite. What the devil is the Whispering Thing? And who, exactly, is the man you call Dalfonzo?”
Peret lifted his eyes and gazed steadily at the artist.
“I will answer your second question first, Monsieur,” he replied, with exasperating slowness. “My answer will explain why I have been beating around the bush, as you call it.”
He leaned slightly forward, his right hand in his coat pocket, his eyes smiling, the muscles around his mouth tense.
“Count Vincent di Dalfonzo,” he said, “is the man who at the present time calls himself Albert Deweese—Don’t move, Monsieur! The revolver in my coat pocket is centered on your heart!”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MYSTERY IS SOLVED.
If Peret expected to catch Deweese off his guard, he was sadly disappointed. The artist met his gaze squarely, and without any apparent emotion.
Flicking the ashes from his cold cigarette, he applied a lighted match to it and tossed the charred splinter upon the floor. The corpselike look of his face became a little accentuated, perhaps, and there was a slight narrowing of the eyes that had not been apparent before; but, except for that, there was no change in his manner or appearance.
For a moment neither of the men spoke. Their eyes clashed and held. The stillness became tense, electric, as they contemplated each other through the haze of smoke that curled from the ends of their cigarettes. Finally: