His face blanched oddly at my words. An hour ago he would have heard them with oaths and curses. Now, however, his bravado had gone with his courage. Perhaps I had made no real appeal to the old instincts of his boyhood. But his fear and his hope of some advantage of confession brought him to his knees. “I can’t tell you much,” he stammered. “You can tell me what you know.” “Well—what about it then?” “Ah! that is reason speaking. First, the name of the man.” “What man do you speak of?” “The man who sent you to this house. Was it from Paris, from Rome, from Vienna? You are wearing French boots, I see. Then it was Paris, was it not?” “Oh, call it Paris, if you like.” “And the man—a Frenchman?” “I can’t tell you. He spoke English. I met him at Quaz-Arts, and he introduced me to the others—a big man with a slash across his jaw and pock-marked. He kept me at a great hotel six weeks. I was dead out of luck—went over there to get work in a motor-works and got chucked—well, I don’t say for what. Then Val came along——” “Val—a Christian name?” “I heard the rest of it was Imroth. Some said he was a German Jew who had been in Buenos Ayres. I don’t know. We were to get the stuff easy and all cross back by different routes. Mine was Southampton—Havre. I’d have been back in Paris to-morrow night but for you. Good God, what luck!” “The best, perhaps, you ever had in your wretched life. Please to go on. You were to return to Paris—with the diamonds?” “Oh, no; Rouge la Gloire carried those—on the ship, of course. I was to cross the scent. You don’t know Val Imroth. There isn’t another man like him in Paris. If he thought I’d told you this, he’d murder the pair of us, though he crossed two continents to do it. I’ve seen him at it. My God, if you’d seen all I’ve seen, Dr. Fabos!” “You have my name, it appears. I am not so fortunate.” He hung down his head, and I saw with no little satisfaction that he blushed like a girl. “I was Harry Avenhill once,” he said. “The son of Dr. Avenhill, of Cambridge?” “It’s as true as night.” “Thank God that your father is dead. We will speak of him again—when the seed has begun to grow a little warm. I want now to go back a step. This ship in which my diamonds were to go——” He started, and looked at me with wild eyes. “I never said anything about any ship!” “No? Then I was dreaming it. You yourself were to return to Paris _viâ_ Havre and Southampton, I think; while this fellow Rouge la Gloire, he went from Newhaven.” “How did you know that?” “Oh, I know many things. The ship, then, is waiting for him—shall we say in Shoreham harbour?” It was a pure guess upon my part, but I have never seen a man so struck by astonishment and wonder. For some minutes he could not say a single word. When he replied, it was in the tone of one who could contest with me no longer.