bout it?" asked Daspry, turning to me.

"I think as you do, that Mon. Andermatt is one of the invited guests."

"Yes, but for what purpose?"

"That is what we are going to find out."

I led the men to a large room. The three of us could hide comfortably
behind the velvet chimney-mantle, and observe all that should happen
in the room. We seated ourselves there, with Madame Andermatt in the
centre.

The clock struck nine. A few minutes later, the garden gate creaked upon
its hinges. I confess that I was greatly agitated. I was about to learn
the key to the mystery. The startling events of the last few weeks were
about to be explained, and, under my eyes, the last battle was going to
be fought. Daspry seized the hand of Madame Andermatt, and said to her:

"Not a word, not a movement! Whatever you may see or hear, keep quiet!"

Some one entered. It was Alfred Varin. I recognized him at once, owing
to the close resemblance he bore to his brother Etienne. There was
the same slouching gait; the same cadaverous face covered with a black
beard.

He entered with the nervous air of a man who is accustomed to fear the
presence of traps and ambushes; who scents and avoids them. He glanced
about the room, and I had the impression that the chimney, masked with
a velvet portiere, did not please him. He took three steps in our
direction, when something caused him to turn and walk toward the old
mosaic king, with the flowing beard and flamboyant sword, which he
examined minutely, mounting on a chair and following with his fingers
the outlines of the shoulders and head and feeling certain parts of the
face. Suddenly, he leaped from the chair and walked away from it. He had
heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Mon. Andermatt appeared at the
door.

"You! You!" exclaimed the banker. "Was it you who brought me here?"

"I? By no means," protested Varin, in a rough, jerky voice that reminded
me of his brother, "on the contrary, it was your letter that brought me
here."

"My letter?"

"A letter signed by you, in which you offered---"

"I never wrote to you," declared Mon. Andermatt.

"You did not write to me!"

Instinctively, Varin was put on his guard, not against the banker, but
against the unknown enemy who had drawn him into this trap. A second
time, he looked in our direction, then walked toward the door. But Mon.
Andermatt barred his passage.

"Well, where are you going, Varin?"

"There is something about this af