A gleam of cunning flitted in the German’s eyes. “Very well,” he said, with sulky submission. “If you insist!” “But with this difference,” continued Chassaigne, “_that your habitual suggestion shall be reversed_!” The German started--controlled himself quickly. “I do not understand,” he said, maintaining his pose of sulkiness. “I mean that instead of suggesting to her that she is and always has been Ottilie Rosenhagen--you suggest to her that she is really Hélène Courvoisier, a French girl deported from Lille!” The muscles stood out suddenly upon the German’s lean jaws, even as, with a strength of will Chassaigne could not but admire, he smiled mockingly into his adversary’s face. “You rave, monsieur!” he said, and his tone emphasized the insult. “Rave or not,” replied Chassaigne, calmly, “I want you to try the experiment. It is a whim of mine.” He handled the revolver suggestively. “And if I refuse?” “I shall shoot you!” The German laughed outright. “Ottilie!” he cried, in German, “these Frenchmen have gone mad. They pretend that you are not Ottilie Rosenhagen but a French girl--and they want to take you from me!” The girl sprang from her seat with a cry of horror, rushed to him, and flung her arms about him. “Oh, no, no!” she cried. “I am German--I am German--I was never anything but German! Oh, don’t take me away from him! I love him! I love him! He is all I have in the world!” Vincent watched the action with jealous rage. “My God!” he muttered. “I shall kill him in another moment if this goes on!” The German smiled at them triumphantly. “You see, gentlemen! Your suggestion is fantastic! This girl is my fiancée, and she is German to the core!” Chassaigne’s face was stern. “Vincent! Remove the lady!” The young man had to tear her by force from the German, who remained immobile in his chair in a mocking respect for the revolver. “Fantastic or not,” said Chassaigne, “I demand that you try the experiment. If you refuse--it is because you dare not do it!” The German shrugged his shoulders. “Very good, monsieur. I refuse. Think what you will!” Chassaigne drew his watch from his pocket. “I give you three minutes to decide,” he said. “Vincent! Put the lady in that armchair and be ready to shoot when I give the word. Two bullets are more sure than one!” The girl, dazed with fright, looking as though she were in some awful dream, collapsed nervelessly into the chair. Vincent posted himself by the German’s side, his levelled revolver held just out of reach of a sudden snatch. The German tried one more expostulation. “This is madness!” he cried. “You surely do not propose to commit a cold-blooded murder!” “One!” said Chassaigne, grimly. “Two more minutes, monsieur!” The German laughed diabolically.