“Perhaps the man whom some know as Hornby, or Woodroffe, could tell an interesting story,” I went on.  “He will, no doubt, when he meets Elma Heath, and finds the terrible affliction of which she has been the victim.”

His thin, bony countenance was bloodless, his mouth twitched and his gray brows contracted quickly.

“I haven’t the least idea what you mean, my dear sir,” he stammered.  “All that you say is entirely enigmatical to me.  What have I to do with this mad Englishwoman’s affairs?”

“Send out this man,” I said, pointing to the detective Malkoff, who had appeared from behind the paneling of the audience-chamber.  “Send him out, and I will tell you.”

But the representative of the Czar, always as much in dread of assassination as his imperial master, refused.  I saw that what I had said had upset him, and that he was not at all clear as to how much or how little of the true facts I knew.

The connection between the little miniature cross of the Order of St. Anne and that red and yellow ribbon in his button-hole struck me forcibly at that moment, and I said: 

“I have no desire to make any statements before a second person.  I came here to see you privately, and in private will I speak.  I have certain information that will, I feel confident, be of the utmost interest to you—­concerning another woman, Armida Santini.”

His lips were pressed together, and I noticed how he started when I uttered the name of that woman whom I had found dead in Rannoch Wood, and whose body had so mysteriously disappeared.

“And what on earth can the woman concern me?” he asked, with a brave attempt to remain cool, still speaking in French.

“Only that you knew her,” was my brief reply.  Then, with my eyes still fixed upon his, I asked:  “Will you not now request this gentleman to retire?”

He hesitated a moment, and then with a wave of his hand dismissed the man he had summoned to his aid.  A moment later the “Strangler’s” personal protector had disappeared through that secret door in the paneling by which he had entered.

“Well?” asked the Baron, turning quickly to me again, his dark, evil eyes trying to fathom my intentions.

“Well?” I asked.  “And what, pray, can you profit by denouncing me as an assassin?  Remember, Baron, that your secret is mine,” I said in a clear voice full of meaning.

“And your intention is blackmail—­eh?” he snapped, walking to the window and back again.  “How much do you want?”

“My intention is nothing of the kind.  My object is to avenge the outrageous injury to Elma Heath.”

“Of course.  That is only natural, m’sieur, if you have fallen in love with her,” he said.  “But are not your intentions somewhat ill-advised considering her position as a criminal lunatic?”

“She is neither,” I protested quickly.

“Very well.  You know better than myself,” he laughed.  “The offense for which she was condemned to confinement in a fortress was the attempted assassination of Madame Vakuroff, wife of the General commanding the Uleaborg Military Division.”