Rohscheimer, who looked as though he had spent a poor night, ordered that Inspector Sheffield be shown up without delay. Immediately afterwards there came in a tall, black-bearded man, wearing blue spectacles, an old rain-coat, and a dilapidated silk hat. The drive, though short, had been long enough to enable Victor Lemage, secure from observation behind the drawn blinds of Severac Bablon's big car, to merge his personality into that of another man, distinct from Dr. Lepardo--unlike M. Levi. "Who are you?" blustered Rohscheimer, changing colour, and drawing a brilliant dressing-gown more closely about him. "Who the blazes are you?" "_Ssh!_ I am Inspector Sheffield--disguised. You will excuse me if, even here, I continue to impersonate an eccentric French character. You place yourself within the reach of the law, my friend. You lay yourself open to the suspicion of murder." Julius Rohscheimer swallowed noisily. His flabby face assumed a dingy hue; his eyes protruded to an unpleasant degree. "Here, upon this, my card, write the words, 'Vengeance is mine.'" Rohscheimer rose unsteadily; his puffy hands groped as if, feeling himself slipping, he sought for something to lay hold upon. "I swear----" "Write!" Rohscheimer shakily wrote the words, "_Vengence is mine._" "No 'a,'" cried Lemage triumphantly, "no 'a'! Of all the stupid pigs I am he. But I had not given you the credit of such nerve, M. Rohscheimer. I had forgotten how once you lived the rough life in South Africa. It is so? I did not think you had the courage to write--though wobbly--those lying words in presence of the dead Gottschalk. Why did you do it, you bad, foolish fellow? The yataghan already was stuck in the desk, eh? That Legun is a fury when the blood thirst is upon him, when the big vein throb. And you saw the blank paper? Yes? Or you feared that you--you--the mighty Julius might be suspect? Yes, a little? Principally you hope that this will spur the police and that _he_ will hang. You prefer that the real one--who slays your partner--shall go free, if _he_ can be blackened. You throw sand in the eye of Justice, eh? Well--you have influence; you shall use it to get yourself made Scotch-free. Very good. You will now write in a few words how all this is. That or--I have men outside. It is a public removal to--Good, you will write." * * * * * At about that hour when, at thousands of breakfast tables, horrified readers learned that Severac Bablon's Arabs had committed a ghastly crime in Moorgate Street, a cart drove up to New Scotland Yard, and two green-aproned individuals both of whom would have been improved artistically by a clean shave, dragged a heavy packing-case into the office, said it contained curiosities from Bedford Court Mansions and was for Inspector Sheffield. When, half an hour later, the unwieldy box had been opened, out glared a bound and gagged man, upon whose left temple there pulsed and throbbed a dark blue vein!