He paused while a contemplative, elusive smile played about his mouth.

“The point is, I am going to pay the price that society exacts when this sort of thing is—­found out.  I am perfectly willing to pay it, not in the least afraid to pay it, and, above all, not in the least sorry for anything.  I want you to remember that and repeat it.  I have no patience with cowardly canting talk about remorse.  I have never for one moment regretted anything I have done, and I regret nothing now.  Nothing!  I have had five years of the best this world can give—­power, fortune, social position, pleasure, everything, and whatever I pay, I’m ahead of the game, way ahead.  If I had it all to do over again and knew that this would be the end, I would change nothing.”

“Except that secret door under the stone shelf—­you might change that,” put in Coquenil dryly.

“No wonder you feel bitter,” mused the baron.  “It was you or me, and—­I showed no pity.  Why should you?  I want you to believe, though, that I was genuine when I said I liked you.  I was ready to destroy you, but I liked you.  I like you now, Coquenil, and—­this is perhaps our last talk, they will take me off presently, and—­you collect odd souvenirs—­here is one—­a little good-by—­from an adversary who was—­game, anyway.  You don’t mind accepting it?”

There was something in the man’s voice that Coquenil had never heard there.  Was it a faint touch of sentiment?  He took the ring that the baron handed him, an uncut ruby, and looked at it thoughtfully, wondering if, after all, there was room in this cold, cruel soul for a tiny spot of tenderness.

“It’s a beautiful stone, but—­I cannot accept it; we never take gifts from prisoners and—­thank you.”

He handed back the ring.

The baron’s face darkened; he made an angry gesture as if he would dash the trinket to the floor.  Then he checked himself, and studying the ring sadly, twisted it about in his fingers.

“Ah, that pride of yours!  You’ve been brilliant, you’ve been brave, but never unkind before.  It’s only a bauble, Coquenil, and——­”

De Heidelmann-Bruck stopped suddenly and M. Paul caught a savage gleam in his eyes; then, swiftly, the baron put the ring to his mouth, and sucking in his breath, swallowed hard.

The detective sprang forward, but it was too late.

“A doctor—­quick!” he called to the guard.

“No use!” murmured the rich man, sinking forward.

Coquenil tried to support him, but the body was too heavy for his bandaged hand, and the prisoner sank to the floor.

“I—­I won the last trick, anyhow,” the baron whispered as M. Paul bent over him.

Coquenil picked up the ring that had fallen from a nerveless hand.  He put it to his nose and sniffed it.

“Prussic acid!” he muttered, and turned away from the last horrors.

Two minutes later, when Dr. Duprat rushed in, the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck, unafraid and unrepentant, had gone to his last long sleep.  His face was calm, and even in death his lips seemed set in a mocking smile of triumph.