“If the jewel is where you say it is—well, it has been there for over seven years—a quarter of an hour more does not matter.” “Go on,” said Anthony. “That wasn’t all you wanted to say?” “No, it was not. At this juncture, it is—unwise to permit any one person to leave the room. Especially if that person has rather questionable antecedents.” Anthony raised his eyebrows, and lighted a cigarette. “I suppose a vagabond life is not very respectable,” he mused. “Two months ago, Mr. Cade, you were in South Africa. That is admitted. Where were you before that?” Anthony leaned back in his chair, idly blowing smoke rings. “Canada. Wild North West.” “Are you sure you were not in prison? A French prison?” Automatically, Superintendent Battle moved a step nearer the door, as if to cut off a retreat that way, but Anthony showed no signs of doing anything dramatic. Instead, he stared at the French detective, and then burst out laughing. “My poor Lemoine. It is a monomania with you! You do indeed see King Victor everywhere. So you fancy that I am that interesting gentleman?” “Do you deny it?” Anthony brushed a fleck of ash from his coat sleeve. “I never deny anything that amuses me,” he said lightly. “But the accusation is really too ridiculous.” “Ah! you think so?” The Frenchman leant forward. His face was twitching painfully, and yet he seemed perplexed and baffled—as though something in Anthony’s manner puzzled him. “What if I tell you, Monsieur, that this time—this time—I am out to get King Victor, and nothing shall stop me!” “Very laudable,” was Anthony’s comment. “You’ve been out to get him before, though, haven’t you, Lemoine? And he’s got the better of you. Aren’t you afraid that that may happen again? He’s a slippery fellow, by all accounts.” The conversation had developed into a duel between the detective and Anthony. Every one else in the room was conscious of the tension. It was a fight to a finish between the Frenchman, painfully in earnest, and the man who smoked so calmly and whose words seemed to show that he had not a care in the world. “If I were you, Lemoine,” continued Anthony, “I should be very, very careful. Watch your step, and all that sort of thing.” “This time,” said Lemoine grimly, “there will be no mistake.” “You seem very sure about it all,” said Anthony. “But there’s such a thing as evidence, you know.” Lemoine smiled, and something in his smile seemed to attract Anthony’s attention. He sat up and stubbed out his cigarette. “You saw that note I wrote just now?” said the French detective. “It was to my people at the inn. Yesterday I received from France the fingerprints and the Bertillon measurements of King Victor—the so-called Captain O’Neill. I have asked for them to be sent up to me here. In a few minutes we shall _know_ whether you are the man!” Anthony stared steadily at him. Then a little smile crept over his face.