"After all, _mon vieux_, you were responsible. We found two bodies floating down the Nive. One of them wore--oh, very becomingly, I assure you!--a knife in his stomach. The _Sûreté_ informed me. I identified the knife. It was one of mine, which you had taken from my collection to wear while disguised as Ibrahim the Afghan ruffian. "'_Alors_,' said I, 'Ibrahim Khan has given good account of himself. Perhaps, but God forbid, his own body will follow. I assure you that we watched with anxiety. But no further signs. At low tide, however--you know, the Nive rises and falls with the tide, since we're so close to the sea--we found another body, mainly as the result of our continued close watch for yours. This one was wedged near the central of the seven bridges. We investigated, and found an uncharted drain of considerable diameter. "'_Mordieu_,' said I to _Monsieur_ the Prefect, 'if bodies came out, bodies can also go in.' We got diving-suits. The tide in the meanwhile rose, but we had the location well marked. We advanced up the drain until we came to a dead end. Even before we left the water we heard the clash and crackle of your skirmish----" "Massacre, you mean," interpolated Farrell, grinning as much as his bandages permitted. "Not a second too soon." "_Eh bien_, we shut our exhaust air-valves and thus rose to the surface. Our grappling-irons snagged to the coping helped us unaided over the top. Then we sliced our airlines and lifelines, opened our exhausts and----" "Scared them out of a week's growth!" added Farrell as d'Artois paused to light a cigarette. "But that damnable thing all of quivering fire--good Lord!" "That," submitted d'Artois, "is something that I can explain but vaguely, if at all. I called it some more mummery, and decided, rather hastily, perhaps, that you and the Marquis needed help first of all. On reflection, and in view of some of your remarks since we left, I am of the opinion that it was either an elemental conjured up by those devil-mongering adepts, or else a wandering and malignant astral that was energized by the vital essence of the adepts, or perhaps by the vibration concentration of their ritual. _Monsieur le Marquis_, God rest his erring soul, could doubtless explain what it was, since he used his last spark of will to combat it and thwart its attempt to convert Mademoiselle Antoinette into--what did you tell me?--a courier to call Shirkuh from the hell in which he now must be roasting. "I would very much relish," continued d'Artois, "questioning Hassan, who devised all that deviltry. But alas! he escaped. And while you, both of you, were causing the good doctor a certain amount of concern, I heard that the _Sûreté_ and a handful of _gendarmes_ cleaned out the entire nest. Unhappily, two were taken alive of that crew of assassins. And of course, those lovely ladies of the garden." Farrell sighed from weariness and contentment, then grimaced from the ache of his wounds.