Monsieur Judas spread out his hands with a deprecating gesture, murmured something indistinct, and then relapsed into silence, much to the disappointment of Mrs. Binter. "There's two legs of a fowl," said the lady, rattling her keys. "Binter was goin' to have 'em for his breakfast; but I can trim 'em up with parsley, if you like, an' with bread an' cheese an' a bottle of that sour vinegar you call Julia, it'll be quite a little 'oliday for you." Just at this moment the bell rang, and Mrs. Binter hastening to the front door, admitted Mr. Fanks, took him in charge, and having delivered him over to the safe custody of Monsieur Judas, retired with a final rattle of the keys in deep wrath at her failure with the supper idea. Octavius, who looked rather pale, but with a stern expression on his face, slipped off his fur coat, and having surveyed Judas with a calculating expression, sat down by the fiction of a fire, the Frenchman taking a seat opposite. "I do wait for you," said Monsieur Judas, smoothing one lean hand with the other, and letting his eyelids droop over his crafty eyes. "Speak French," replied Fanks, in that language; "we'll understand one another better if you do." "Eh, certainly, my friend," said Judas, rapidly, "it is easier for me. You speak French very well; eh, yes, very well, monsieur." Fanks acknowledged this compliment with a stiff nod, and plunged at once into the object of his visit. "Now, Monsieur Guinaud, about your friend, Melstane?" "Eh! a moment, if you please," hissed Judas, in his low, soft voice, holding up his hand. "Before we speak of the poor Melstane let us understand each other, monsieur. That is but right, my friend." "Yes, it is but right; what do you want to know?" Monsieur Judas placed his elbows on his knees, warmed his claw-like hands over the fire, and looked cunningly at the detective before speaking. "Your name, monsieur?" "Rixton." "It is very well--that name, Monsieur Fanks," replied Judas, with a mocking smile. "You know my real name, I see," rejoined Octavius, without moving a muscle of his face. "I compliment you on your penetration." "Eh, it is not much," said the Frenchman, with a deprecatory shrug. "Monsieur Vosk he read to me the papers of Jarlcesterre, and I find one Monsieur Fanks, agent of the police, to be present. He has the box which my poor friend had for the pills. A stranger comes to me and shows the same box, and I say: 'Monsieur Fanks.' Is that not so?" "Well, you've read the papers," observed Fanks, slowly, "and know all the circumstances of your friend's death." "The papers say he gave himself the death, monsieur." "And what do you say?" "Eh, I do not know," replied Monsieur Judas, shrugging his shoulders, and opening his eyes to their fullest extent (the guileless look). "What is the opinion of monsieur?"