now in a very different key, and the change displeased Chauvenet, for he
much affected ironical raillery, and his companion's sterner tones
disconcerted him.

"I take this opportunity to give you a solemn warning, Monsieur Jules
Chauvenet, alias Rambaud, and thereby render you a greater service than
you know. You have undertaken a deep and dangerous game--it is
spectacular--it is picturesque--it is immense! It is so stupendous that
the taking of a few lives seems trifling in comparison with the end to be
attained. Now look about you for a moment, Monsieur Jules Chauvenet! In
this mountain air a man may grow very sane and see matters very clearly.
London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna--they are a long way off, and the things
they stand for lose their splendor when a man sits among these American
mountains and reflects upon the pettiness and sordidness of man's common
ambitions."

"Is this exordium or peroration, my dear fellow?"

"It is both," replied Armitage succinctly, and Chauvenet was sorry he had
spoken, for Armitage stopped short in a lonely stretch of the highway and
continued in a disagreeable, incisive tone:

"I ran away from Washington after you told that story at Claiborne's
supper-table, not because I was afraid of your accusation, but because I
wanted to watch your plans a little in security. The only man who could
have helped me immediately was Senator Sanderson, and I knew that he was
in Montana."

Chauvenet smiled with a return of assurance.

"Of course. The hour was chosen well!"

"More wisely, in fact, than your choice of that big assassin of yours.
He's a clumsy fellow, with more brawn than brains. I had no trouble in
shaking him off in Boston, where you probably advised him I should be
taking the Montreal express."

Chauvenet blinked. This was precisely what he had told Zmai to expect. He
shifted from one foot to another, and wondered just how he was to escape
from Armitage. He had gone to Storm Springs to be near Shirley Claiborne,
and he deeply resented having business thrust upon him.

"He is a wise man who wields the knife himself, Monsieur Chauvenet. In
the taking of poor Count von Stroebel's life so deftly and secretly, you
prove my philosophy. It was a clever job, Monsieur!"

Chauvenet's gloved fingers caught at his mustache.

"That is almost insulting, Monsieur Armitage. A distinguished statesman
is killed--therefore I must have murdered him. You forget that there's a
difference between