e interrupted by one entering with a key.
That was fortunate. It was file G you had commenced upon, Andre. And one
of the torn pages was G. So I knew that you were a G, too, my friend.
With what you took from the safe and with the letters and other papers,
you slipped down the back stair you knew of into Copthall Avenue. By my
great good luck, and not by my skill, I get upon your trail. But by my
skill I trap you."

The prisoner, whose handsome face now had assumed a leaden hue, whose
eyes were set in a fixed stare of horror and hatred, spoke slowly,
clearly.

"You talk nonsense. You taunt me, to drive me mad. I ask you--who are
you? You are not Levi, you are some spy."

Dr. Lepardo, or M. Isidor Levi, removed a grey wig and a pair of
spectacles and seemed by some relaxation of the facial muscles, to melt
out of existence, leaving in his place a heavy-eyed man, with stained
skin and thin, straggling hair.

De Guise, as though an unseen hand pushed him, stepped back--and
back--and back--until a heavy oak chair prevented further retreat.
There--like a mined fortress, hitherto staunch, defiant--he seemed to
crumble up.

"The good God!" he whispered. "It is _Victor Lemage_!"

"Andre Legun--Chevalier d'Oysan--Comte de Guise," said the famous
criminologist, "Paris wants you, but London now has a better claim. So,
when I have stolen back my cheque from your pocket-book, I hand you over
to London."

With the bravado of the true French criminal, Legun forced a smile to
his lips.

"It is finished, Victor," he said, dropping his affected manner and
speaking with an exaggerated low Paris accent. "I am glad it was you,
and not some stupid policeman of England who took me. Well, who cares? I
have had a short life but a merry one. You know, Victor, that my
misfortune in being the son of an aristocrat has pursued me always. I
have such refined tastes, and such a skill with the cards. You recall
the little house near the fortifications? But the inevitable run of bad
luck came. One question. Why"--he glanced at the Russian-looking man
with something like fear creeping again into his bold eyes--"why do you
hunt me down?"

The black beard and moustache were pulled off in a second by their
wearer, revealing a face of severely classic beauty. Lawrence Guthrie
stared hard.

"Mr. Guthrie," said the whilom Russian, "behold me at your mercy. You
know me innocent of one, at least, of the sins ascribed to me. I am
Severac Bablon."