“You are quite mad, I think,” remarked Deweese, unmoved. “Where the deuce did you ever get the idea that I was Dalfonzo?”
Peret was unable to conceal his admiration.
“You are a great actor, Monsieur, and a brave man,” he declared in a tone that left no doubt of his sincerity. “I told part of my story to test you—a sort of indirect third degree—but so far not a muscle of your face has moved. What a pity it is you are such a damned scoundrel!”
Deweese laughed shortly.
“It is always safe to insult a man when you have him covered,” he observed composedly. “Nevertheless, pray continue. You interest me exceedingly, and cause me no annoyance. Your wild theories brand you a fool and an ass, and, strangely enough, it always gives me pleasure to hear an ass bray. Proceed, my dear chap.”
“There are many others whose opinion of me is similar to your own,” said Peret blandly; “but the fool is he who holds his enemy in contempt.”
Deweese’s eyes flashed.
“Well, dear enemy, what makes you think that I am the chap you call Dalfonzo?” he questioned, smiling with his lips.
“You will not admit your identity, then?” countered the detective.
“Certainly I will admit my identity,” said Deweese, with a laugh. “I am Albert Deweese, very much at your service. What reason have you for believing me to be the man you call Dalfonzo—a man who, if one is to believe you, seems to be in league with an invisible demon that commits murders for him? The very fact that I almost met my death at the hands of the Whispering Thing is proof that I am not the man you seek. If I had anything to do with the Thing, does it seem reasonable to suppose that I would turn it loose on myself?”