“I have heard all, I have heard all,” shrieked the little man. “I know you for what you are. I am the champion of the _carissima signora_ and the protector of the English statesman. You are a traitor and murderer--” Vauvenarde lifted his hand in a threatening gesture. “Hold your tongue, you little abortion!” he shouted. But Anastasius went on screaming and flourishing his bundle of papers. “Ask him if he remembers the horse Sultan; ask him if he remembers the horse Sultan!” Lola took him by the shoulders. “Anastasius, you must go away from here--to please me. It's my orders.” But he shook himself free, and the silk hat which he had not removed fell off in the quick struggle. “Ask him if he remembers Saupiquet,” he screamed, and then banged the door. A malevolent devil put a sudden idea into my head and prompted speech. “_Do_ you remember Saupiquet?” I asked ironically. “Monsieur, meddle with your own affairs and let me pass. You shall hear from me.” The dwarf planted himself before the door. “You shall not pass till you have answered me. Do you remember Saupiquet? Do you remember the five francs you gave to Saupiquet to let you into Sultan's stable? Ah! Ha! Ha! You wince. You grow pale. Do you remember the ball of poison you put down Sultan's throat?” Lola started forward with flaming eyes and anguished face. “You--you?” she gasped. “You were so ignoble as to do that?” “The accursed brute!” shouted Vauvenarde. “Yes, I did it. I wish I had burned out his entrails.” Anastasius sprang at him like a tiger cat. I had a quick vision of the dwarf clinging in the air against the other's bulky form, one hand at his throat, and then of an incredibly swift flash of steel. The dwarf dropped off and rolled backwards, revealing something black sticking out of Vauvenarde's frock-coat--for the second I could not realise what it was. Then Vauvenarde, with a ghastly face, reeled sideways and collapsed in a heap on the ground. CHAPTER XV Of what happened immediately afterwards I have but a confused memory. I remember that Lola and I both fell on our knees beside the stabbed man, and I remember his horrible staring eyes and open mouth. I remember that, though she was white and shaky, she neither shrieked, went into hysterics, nor fainted. I remember rushing down to the manager; I remember running with him breathlessly through obscure passages of the hotel in search of a doctor who was attending a sick member of the staff. I remember the rush back, the doctor bending over the body, which Lola had partially unclothed, and saying: “He is dead. The blade has gone straight through his heart.” And I have in my mind the unforgettable and awful picture of Anastasius Papadopoulos disregarded in a corner of the room, with his absurd silk hat on--some reflex impulse had caused him to pick it up and put it on his head--sitting on the floor amid a welter of documents relating to the death of the horse Sultan, one of which he was eagerly perusing.