Guthrie hesitated for one tremendous moment; he looked from the handsome
face of the most notorious man in Europe to that of his companion who
wore the tweed suit, and whom he knew to be H. T. Sheard, the well-known
member of the _Gleaner_ staff. His decision was made. He stretched out
his hand and took that of Severac Bablon.

"You ask," said the latter sternly to Legun, "why we have hunted you
down. I answer--first, in the sacred interest of Justice; second,
because you imputed your vile crime to _me_."

"What! To _you_? No! never!"

Victor Lemage's eyelids lifted quickly.

"Spell vengeance."

"V-e-n-g-e-a-n-c-e."

"My friends," said Lemage, reaching for the wide-brimmed hat of Dr.
Lepardo, "I all but have spoiled this, my greatest case, by a stupid
blunder. I have an early call to make. Advance your packing in my
absence. I shall shortly return."

And so it happened that Mr. Julius Rohscheimer, in Park Lane, was just
arising when his man brought him a card:

_Detective-Inspector Sheffield_
_C.I.D.,_
_New Scotland Yard._

Rohscheimer, who looked as though he had spent a poor night, ordered
that Inspector Sheffield be shown up without delay. Immediately
afterwards there came in a tall, black-bearded man, wearing blue
spectacles, an old rain-coat, and a dilapidated silk hat. The drive,
though short, had been long enough to enable Victor Lemage, secure from
observation behind the drawn blinds of Severac Bablon's big car, to
merge his personality into that of another man, distinct from Dr.
Lepardo--unlike M. Levi.

"Who are you?" blustered Rohscheimer, changing colour, and drawing a
brilliant dressing-gown more closely about him. "Who the blazes are
you?"

"_Ssh!_ I am Inspector Sheffield--disguised. You will excuse me if, even
here, I continue to impersonate an eccentric French character. You place
yourself within the reach of the law, my friend. You lay yourself open
to the suspicion of murder."

Julius Rohscheimer swallowed noisily. His flabby face assumed a dingy
hue; his eyes protruded to an unpleasant degree.

"Here, upon this, my card, write the words, 'Vengeance is mine.'"

Rohscheimer rose unsteadily; his puffy hands groped as if, feeling
himself slipping, he sought for something to lay hold upon.

"I swear----"

"Write!"

Rohscheimer shakily wrote the words, "_Vengence is mine._"

"No 'a,'" cried Lemage triumphantly, "no 'a'! Of all the stupid pigs I
am he. But I had not g