A loud cry of dismay broke from Poland’s fevered lips as his eyes fell upon the latter.
“Hallo! What’s this?” cried a sharp, imperious voice in French, the voice of the man in pince-nez, as, next moment, he stood gazing down upon the dead unknown, who, strangely enough, resembled him in countenance, in dress—indeed, in every particular.
The startled men halted for a moment, speechless. The situation was staggering.
Henri Guertin stood there alive, and as he bent over the prostrate body an astounding truth became instantly revealed: the dead man had been cleverly made-up to resemble the world-renowned police official.
The reason of this was an entire mystery, although one fact became plain: he had, through posing as Guertin, been foully and swiftly assassinated.
Who was he? Was he really the man who came there to suggest suicide in preference to arrest, or had that strange suggestion been conveyed by Guertin himself?
The point was next moment decided.
“You see, m’sieur,” exclaimed Poland defiantly, turning to the great detective, “I have preferred to take my trial—to allow the public the satisfaction of a solution of the problem, rather than accept the generous terms you offered me an hour ago.”
“Terms I offered you!” cried the Frenchman. “What are you saying? I was not here an hour ago. If you have had a visitor, it must have been this impostor—this man who has lost his life because he has impersonated me!”
Philip Poland, without replying, snatched at the detective’s left hand and examined it. There was no ring upon it.