"Of course he's not!" cried Don Luis, with irresistible conviction and increasing eagerness. "Your father indeed! Why, look at him! Look at that scoundrelly head. Every sort of vice and violence is written on the brute's face. Throughout this adventure, from the first day to the last, there was not a crime committed but was his handiwork: not one, do you follow me? There were not two criminals, as we thought, not Essarès, to begin the hellish business, and old Siméon, to finish it. There was only one criminal, one, do you understand, Patrice? Before killing Coralie and Ya-Bon and Vacherot the porter and the woman who was his own accomplice, he killed others! He killed one other in particular, one whose flesh and blood you are, the man whose dying cries you heard over the telephone, the man who called you Patrice and who only lived for you! He killed that man; and that man was your father, Patrice; he was Armand Belval! Now do you understand?" Patrice did not understand. Don Luis' words fell uncomprehended; not one of them lit up the darkness of Patrice's brain. However, one thought insistently possessed him; and he stammered: "_That_ was my father? I heard his voice, you say? Then it was _he_ who called to me?" "Yes, Patrice, your father." "And the man who killed him . . . ?" "Was this one," said Don Luis, pointing to Siméon. The old man remained motionless, wild-eyed, like a felon awaiting sentence of death. Patrice, quivering with rage, stared at him fixedly: "Who are you? Who are you?" he asked. And, turning to Don Luis, "Tell me his name, I beseech you. I want to know his name, before I destroy him." "His name? Haven't you guessed it yet? Why, from the very first day, I took it for granted! After all, it was the only possible theory." "But what theory? What was it you took for granted?" cried Patrice, impatiently. "Do you really want to know?" "Oh, please! I'm longing to kill him, but I must first know his name." "Well, then . . ." There was a long silence between the two men, as they stood close together, looking into each other's eyes. Then Lupin let fall these four syllables: "Essarès Bey." Patrice felt a shock that ran through him from head to foot. Not for a second did he try to understand by what prodigy this revelation came to be merely an expression of the truth. He instantly accepted this truth, as though it were undeniable and proved by the most evident facts. The man was Essarès Bey and had killed his father. He had killed him, so to speak, twice over: first years ago, in the lodge in the garden, taking from him all the light of life and any reason for living; and again the other day, in the library, when Armand Belval had telephoned to his son.