“I was a prisoner, that’s all.”

“A prisoner of the tribesmen; the same thing!”

“Not quite, Major; one can escape from anywhere.  The proof stands before you.”

The Prefect of Police, yielding to an irresistible attraction to resist, spent some seconds in examining that powerful face, with the smiling glance, the frank and resolute eyes, and the bronzed complexion, which looked as if it had been baked and baked again by the sun.

Then, motioning to his visitors to take chairs around his desk, M. Desmalions himself sat down and made a preliminary statement in clear and deliberate tones: 

“The summons, gentlemen, which I addressed to each of you, must have appeared to you rather peremptory and mysterious.  And the manner in which I propose to open our conversation is not likely to diminish your surprise.  But if you will attach a little credit to my method, you will soon realize that the whole thing is very simple and very natural.  I will be as brief as I can.”

He spread before him the bundle of documents prepared for him by his secretary and, consulting his notes as he spoke, continued: 

“Over fifty years ago, in 1860, three sisters, three orphans, Ermeline, Elizabeth, and Armande Roussel, aged twenty-two, twenty, and eighteen respectively, were living at Saint-Etienne with a cousin named Victor, who was a few years younger.  The eldest, Ermeline, was the first to leave Saint-Etienne.  She went to London, where she married an Englishman of the name Mornington, by whom she had a son, who was christened Cosmo.

“The family was very poor and went through hard times.  Ermeline repeatedly wrote to her sisters to ask for a little assistance.  Receiving no reply, she broke off the correspondence altogether.  In 1870 Mr. and Mrs. Mornington left England for America.  Five years later they were rich.  Mr. Mornington died in 1878; but his widow continued to administer the fortune bequeathed to her and, as she had a genius for business and speculation, she increased this fortune until it attained a colossal figure.  At her decease, in 1900, she left her son the sum of four hundred million francs.”

The amount seemed to make an impression on the Prefect’s hearers.  He saw the major and Don Luis Perenna exchange a glance and asked: 

“You knew Cosmo Mornington, did you not?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Prefet,” replied Comte d’Astrignac.  “He was in Morocco when Perenna and I were fighting there.”

“Just so,” said M. Desmalions.  “Cosmo Mornington had begun to travel about the world.  He took up the practise of medicine, from what I hear, and, when occasion offered, treated the sick with great skill and, of course, without charge.  He lived first in Egypt and then in Algiers and Morocco.  Last year he settled down in Paris, where he died four weeks ago as the result of a most stupid accident.”

“A carelessly administered hypodermic injection, was it not, Monsieur le Prefet?” asked the secretary of the American Embassy.  “It was mentioned in the papers and reported to us at the embassy.”