“Gentlemen,” he cried, raising his voice so that it rang through the room and dominated all who were gathered there, “gentlemen, a man is usually permitted to say something when he has been condemned to death. I make no quarrel with your decision. If I were in your place I should probably do the same myself by another man as you are doing by me. “I don't wish to dispute your decision, much less do I wish to plead for mercy. Melun has denounced me for the simple reason that I have the misfortune to be a gentleman. Well, gentlemen have a habit of dying as such. “I trust I shall be no exception to the rule, but still, before you carry out your kind intentions, I should like to say something to Melun.” “Bring him to the table,” said Melun. He looked uneasily at Westerham and avoided the steadiness of his glance. He felt that the moment was an awkward one. It was unwise to allow Westerham to speak; on the other hand, it would have been folly to deny him the privilege. “Well, what is it?” he demanded sharply as Westerham stepped up to the table and leant his manacled hands on it. Westerham bent forward over the table as far as he could and looked Melun straight in the face. “You will not strangle me,” he said in a very quiet voice, “because THEY ARE NOT WHERE THEY WERE.” Melun turned pale as ashes, and seemed to shrink in his seat. “Good Heavens, man, what do you mean?” he cried. Once again the men were glancing stupidly from Westerham to Melun, and back from Melun to Westerham. “I repeat,” said Westerham, more pointedly than before, “that THEY ARE NOT WHERE THEY WERE.” There was a long and uncomfortable pause while Melun sat rigid in his chair biting his nails. Westerham had made a long shot, and had found the mark. He had argued that Melun's control over the Premier was due to the illegal possession of some of Lord Penshurst's papers, though he did not know whom these papers might concern nor where Melun had placed them. Certainly the captain had not hidden them in his own rooms, nor in the rooms of any of his confederates; for without a doubt if Lord Penshurst had not scrupled to burgle Westerham's flat, he would not scruple to ransack the houses of Melun or his friends. Indeed, Westerham guessed that the hiding-place must be a very strange and secret one—so strange and so secret that probably only the subtle mind of Melun could have conceived it. Thus he had come to the conclusion that it would cause Melun most terrible alarm if that individual even suspected he had an inkling of the whereabouts of the papers. Nor was he mistaken. Slowly and painfully Melun pulled himself together. The easy confidence which had marked his manner and his talk a few moments before was now utterly gone. He was a broken, almost a cringing, man; and Westerham realised that Lord Penshurst could not be setting any fictitious value on the stolen papers.