"You talk nonsense. You taunt me, to drive me mad. I ask you--who are you? You are not Levi, you are some spy." Dr. Lepardo, or M. Isidor Levi, removed a grey wig and a pair of spectacles and seemed by some relaxation of the facial muscles, to melt out of existence, leaving in his place a heavy-eyed man, with stained skin and thin, straggling hair. De Guise, as though an unseen hand pushed him, stepped back--and back--and back--until a heavy oak chair prevented further retreat. There--like a mined fortress, hitherto staunch, defiant--he seemed to crumble up. "The good God!" he whispered. "It is _Victor Lemage_!" "Andre Legun--Chevalier d'Oysan--Comte de Guise," said the famous criminologist, "Paris wants you, but London now has a better claim. So, when I have stolen back my cheque from your pocket-book, I hand you over to London." With the bravado of the true French criminal, Legun forced a smile to his lips. "It is finished, Victor," he said, dropping his affected manner and speaking with an exaggerated low Paris accent. "I am glad it was you, and not some stupid policeman of England who took me. Well, who cares? I have had a short life but a merry one. You know, Victor, that my misfortune in being the son of an aristocrat has pursued me always. I have such refined tastes, and such a skill with the cards. You recall the little house near the fortifications? But the inevitable run of bad luck came. One question. Why"--he glanced at the Russian-looking man with something like fear creeping again into his bold eyes--"why do you hunt me down?" The black beard and moustache were pulled off in a second by their wearer, revealing a face of severely classic beauty. Lawrence Guthrie stared hard. "Mr. Guthrie," said the whilom Russian, "behold me at your mercy. You know me innocent of one, at least, of the sins ascribed to me. I am Severac Bablon." Guthrie hesitated for one tremendous moment; he looked from the handsome face of the most notorious man in Europe to that of his companion who wore the tweed suit, and whom he knew to be H. T. Sheard, the well-known member of the _Gleaner_ staff. His decision was made. He stretched out his hand and took that of Severac Bablon. "You ask," said the latter sternly to Legun, "why we have hunted you down. I answer--first, in the sacred interest of Justice; second, because you imputed your vile crime to _me_." "What! To _you_? No! never!" Victor Lemage's eyelids lifted quickly. "Spell vengeance." "V-e-n-g-e-a-n-c-e." "My friends," said Lemage, reaching for the wide-brimmed hat of Dr. Lepardo, "I all but have spoiled this, my greatest case, by a stupid blunder. I have an early call to make. Advance your packing in my absence. I shall shortly return." And so it happened that Mr. Julius Rohscheimer, in Park Lane, was just arising when his man brought him a card: _Detective-Inspector Sheffield_ _C.I.D.,_ _New Scotland Yard._