"To whom do you refer?" inquired the detective quickly.
"To Monsieur Everton, the young Englishman who was found dead about a year ago in the Avenue des Acacias."
In an instant the man whom I had known in Leghorn as Branca sprang at her with all the fury of a wild beast, and, clutching her at the throat, tried to strangle her. His eyes were lit by the fierce light of uncontrollable anger, his bushy hair giving his white face a wild and terrible look, and it really seemed that before the detectives could throw themselves upon him, the murderer would tear limb from limb the woman who had confessed.
For a moment the detectives and the man and woman were all struggling wildly together. Suddenly a loud yell of pain escaped from the wretched Corsican, and releasing his hold, he drew back, with his left hand clasped upon his wrist.
He staggered, swayed unevenly, uttering terrible imprecations.
"Dieu!" he gasped. "You—you've killed me!"
What had happened was easy to understand. In the struggle the point of his cunning invention, which was still upon the woman's finger, had entered deeply the fleshy part of his wrist, injecting that poison that was so swift, and for which no antidote had ever been discovered.
As he staggered, two detectives sprang forward to seize him, but before they could do so, he reeled, clutched at the air, and fell heavily backward, overturning a small table beside which he had been standing.
Never was there a scene more ghastly. I shall remember every detail of it so long as I have power to draw my breath.
Five minutes later, the wretched man who had thus brought card-sharping and murder to a fine art had breathed his last in frightful agony, his ignominious career ended by his own diabolical invention.