“I take this opportunity to give you a solemn warning, Monsieur Jules Chauvenet, alias Rambaud, and thereby render you a greater service than you know.  You have undertaken a deep and dangerous game—­it is spectacular—­it is picturesque—­it is immense!  It is so stupendous that the taking of a few lives seems trifling in comparison with the end to be attained.  Now look about you for a moment, Monsieur Jules Chauvenet!  In this mountain air a man may grow very sane and see matters very clearly.  London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna—­they are a long way off, and the things they stand for lose their splendor when a man sits among these American mountains and reflects upon the pettiness and sordidness of man’s common ambitions.”

“Is this exordium or peroration, my dear fellow?”

“It is both,” replied Armitage succinctly, and Chauvenet was sorry he had spoken, for Armitage stopped short in a lonely stretch of the highway and continued in a disagreeable, incisive tone: 

“I ran away from Washington after you told that story at Claiborne’s supper-table, not because I was afraid of your accusation, but because I wanted to watch your plans a little in security.  The only man who could have helped me immediately was Senator Sanderson, and I knew that he was in Montana.”

Chauvenet smiled with a return of assurance.

“Of course.  The hour was chosen well!”

“More wisely, in fact, than your choice of that big assassin of yours.  He’s a clumsy fellow, with more brawn than brains.  I had no trouble in shaking him off in Boston, where you probably advised him I should be taking the Montreal express.”

Chauvenet blinked.  This was precisely what he had told Zmai to expect.  He shifted from one foot to another, and wondered just how he was to escape from Armitage.  He had gone to Storm Springs to be near Shirley Claiborne, and he deeply resented having business thrust upon him.

“He is a wise man who wields the knife himself, Monsieur Chauvenet.  In the taking of poor Count von Stroebel’s life so deftly and secretly, you prove my philosophy.  It was a clever job, Monsieur!”

Chauvenet’s gloved fingers caught at his mustache.

“That is almost insulting, Monsieur Armitage.  A distinguished statesman is killed—­therefore I must have murdered him.  You forget that there’s a difference between us—­you are an unknown adventurer, carried on the books of the police as a fugitive from justice, and I can walk to the hotel and get twenty reputable men to vouch for me.  I advise you to be careful not to mention my name in connection with Count von Stroebel’s death.”

He had begun jauntily, but closed in heat, and when he finished Armitage nodded to signify that he understood perfectly.

“A few more deaths and you would be in a position to command tribute from a high quarter, Monsieur.”

“Your mind seems to turn upon assassination.  If you know so much about Stroebel’s death, it’s unfortunate that you left Europe at a time when you might have rendered important aid in finding the murderer.  It’s a bit suspicious, Monsieur Armitage!  It is known at the Hotel Monte Rosa in Geneva that you were the last person to enjoy an interview with the venerable statesman—­you see I am not dull, Monsieur Armitage!”