“Mutilated and unrecognizable,” Anthony reminded him. “She managed to put up a bluff. I think she escaped to America, and has spent a good many years lying low in deadly terror of the Comrades of the Red Hand. They promoted the Revolution, remember, and, to use an expressive phrase, they always had it in for her. Then King Victor was released, and they planned to recover the diamond together. She was searching for it that night when she came suddenly upon Prince Michael, and he recognized her. There was never much fear of her meeting him in the ordinary way of things. Royal guests don’t come in contact with governesses, and she could always retire with a convenient _migraine_, as she did the day the Baron was here. “However, she met Prince Michael face to face when she least expected it. Exposure and disgrace stared her in the face. She shot him. It was she who placed the revolver in Isaacstein’s suit-case, so as to confuse the trail, and she who returned the letters.” Lemoine moved forward. “She was coming down to search for the jewel that night, you say,” he said. “Might she not have been going to meet her accomplice, King Victor, who was coming from outside? Eh? What do you say to that?” Anthony sighed. “Still at it, my dear Lemoine? How persistent you are! You won’t take my hint that I’ve got a trump card up my sleeve?” But George, whose mind worked slowly, now broke in. “I am still completely at sea. Who was this lady, Baron? You recognize her, it seems?” But the Baron drew himself up and stood very straight and stiff. “You are in error, Mr. Lomax. To my knowledge I have not this lady seen before. A complete stranger she is to me.” “But——” George stared at him—bewildered. The Baron took him into a corner of the room, and murmured something into his ear. Anthony watched, with a good deal of enjoyment, George’s face turning slowly purple, his eyes bulging, and all the incipient symptoms of apoplexy. A murmur of George’s throaty voice came to him. “Certainly ... certainly ... by all means ... no need at all ... complicate situation ... utmost discretion.” “Ah!” Lemoine hit the table sharply with his hand. “I do not care about all this! The murder of Prince Michael—that was not my affair. I want King Victor.” Anthony shook his head gently. “I’m sorry for you, Lemoine. You’re really a very able fellow. But, all the same, you’re going to lose the trick. I’m about to play my trump card.” He stepped across the room and rang the bell. Tredwell answered it. “A gentleman arrived with me this evening, Tredwell.” “Yes, sir, a foreign gentleman.” “Quite so. Will you kindly ask him to join us here as soon as possible?” “Yes, sir.” Tredwell withdrew. “Entry of the trump card, the mysterious Monsieur X,” remarked Anthony. “_Who is he?_ Can anyone guess?”