“You were a devil!  Even now as I look at you, you laugh and jibe!” The shadow upon the floor here swung its arms threateningly.  “But laugh away.  I have won, and it is my turn to laugh!”

Here the shadow slid along and up the wall; peering around the edge of the door, Pendleton saw a man with massive, stooped shoulders and a great square head, covered with thick, iron-gray hair; and instantly he recognized him as the man whom they had seen that night in the doorway of Locke’s workshop.  The stranger was standing just under the portrait of Hume; he gazed up at it, and his big shoulders shook with laughter.

“What a mistake to make,” he said, still in French.  “How was I to know that the old devil once called himself Wayne!”

He reached up and took the picture from its hook; with thick, powerful fingers he tore the backing away, and a flat, compact bundle of papers was disclosed.  The picture was thrown upon the bed, and the man stood staring at the papers, a wide smile upon his face.

“So this is the secret, eh?  Well, Locke will pay well for it, and it will be worth all the risks I’ve taken.”

He was fumbling with a coat pocket as though to stow them away, when there came a swift, light rush, the packet was torn from his hands, and Edyth Vale was darting toward the hall door and the stairway beyond.

But despite his bulk, the man with the stooped shoulders proved himself singularly swift.  In two leaps he had overtaken her; dragging her back to the center of the room, he snatched the packet from her in turn.  Regarding her with calm, pitiless eyes, he said in English: 

“I am sorry, mees, that you have come, eh?  Eet makes eet mooch harder for me.  And I am of the kind that would rather be off quietly, is it not? and say no words to no one.”

Edyth Vale, pale of face, but with steady eye, returned his look.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I am sorry to do anything,” spoke the stranger.  “I do not know you, and you will onderstan’, will you not, that I can’t leave you behind—­to talk?”

As he spoke a flashing something appeared from the girl’s pocket; he lifted one huge paw to beat her down; but a clenched hand, protected by a corded buckskin glove, thudded against his jaw; his knees weakened, and he sprawled upon the floor.

“Jimmie!” gasped Edyth Vale.  “Jimmie Pendleton!”

“Oh, Edyth—­Edyth!” was all the man could say.  He slipped his arm around her, for she was tottering; and as he helped her to a chair, Ashton-Kirk quietly entered at the hall door.

“Miss Vale,” said he, “good-evening.”

Without waiting to note if she even gave him a look, he bent over the fallen man and snapped a pair of handcuffs upon his wrists.

“A very pretty blow, Pen,” said he, admiringly.  “Beautifully timed, and your judgment of distance was excellent.”

He slipped the fallen papers into his pocket and continued:  “Keep an eye on him, for a moment.”