“The attack on you was an accident, Monsieur—a bit of retributive justice, perhaps. Were it not for the fact that you still suffer from the effects of it, I would say that you only got part of what was coming to you. Not a full dose of your own medicine, Monsieur—just a taste of it. Ah, you are clever, my friend, clever as the fiends in hell; but, it appears, not clever enough, Diable, Monsieur, you should have better trained that terrible monster before you turned it loose, eh?”
“You seem to like to talk in riddles,” snapped Deweese. “What is the Whispering Thing, anyway? If you know, I shall be obliged if you will tell me.”
“Very well, my friend,” acquiesced Peret. “I will do so with pleasure. The invisible monster, the terrible, whispering, breathing, fear-inspiring demon is—”
“Well?” demanded Deweese tersely.
“One little bat,” concluded Peret—“or rather, two little bats.”
Absurd as the detective’s statement may have sounded, its effect on the artist was, nevertheless, pronounced. His gaze wavered and his face, if such a thing were possible, became a shade paler. His recovery, however, was almost immediate.
“I do not know what it was that attacked you last night,” he sneered. “It may have been and probably was a bat. It is possible that an insect could strike terror in the heart of a delicate little flower like you. But if you think a bat attacked me—” with one of his chilling laughs—“I can only say that I think you are a poor damned fool.”
“There are times that I think the same thing,” replied Peret, seriously; “but this is not one of them. I not only think that the Thing was a bat—I know it. And to prove to you how futile it is for you to pretend ignorance of the Thing, and of your own identity, let me reenact in words the tragedy that ended in the death of two good and innocent men.”
“Do so,” gritted Deweese, his cold blue eyes glittering. “But if you think you can convince me that the Thing that attacked me was a bat—”
“As I have already stated,” said Peret, fixing his gaze on the unwavering eyes of the artist, “the murder of M. Berjet was conceived after you learned that Adolphe had been killed. You deemed it necessary to your own safety. Having completed your diabolical plans, therefore, you lost no time in calling at the scientist’s home. Upon reaching your destination, you entered the house by way of the front door, which you found unlocked. The door of the library or sitting-room, on the other hand, was secured.