“The patron speaks no French,” put in the old woman.  “You ought to know that.  Tell me, and I will interpret.”

Mr. Hobson played his part closely, that was clear.  A Frenchman by birth, he could hardly be ignorant of or have forgotten his own tongue.

Hyde, following these instructions, told his story in the briefest words.  How Valetta Joe had been seized, his shop ransacked, and many compromising papers brought to light.

“Ask him how he knows this,” said Mr. Hobson quietly.

“My brother has written to me from the Crimea.  He was in the camp when the baker was seized.”

“What is his brother’s name?”

“Eugene Chabot, of the 39th Algerian battalion.”

This was a name given in the papers seized.

“Was it he who gave this address?  How did the fellow come here?  Ask him that.”

“Yes,” Hyde said; he had learned the patron’s address from his brother, who had urged him to come and tell what had happened without a moment’s delay.

Mr. Hobson, alias Ledantec, had listened attentively to this friendly message as it was interpreted to him bit by bit, but without betraying the slightest concern.  Suddenly he changed his demeanour.

"Ecoutez-moi!" he cried in excellent French, looking up and darting a fierce look at the man in front of him.  “Listen!  You have played a bold game and lost it.  You did not hold a sufficiently strong hand.”

Hyde stood sullenly silent and unconcerned, but he felt he was discovered.

“In your charming and for the most part veracious story there is only one slight mistake, my good friend.”

“I do not understand.”

“I will tell you.  Eugene Chabot, your brother?—­yes; your brother.  Well, he could not have written to you as you tell me—­”

“But I assure you—­”

“For the simple reason, that, just one week before the seizure of Valetta Joe, Chabot was killed—­in a sortie from the enemy’s lines.”

“Impossible!  I—­”

“Have been lying throughout and must take the consequences.  You have thrust your head into the lion’s jaw.  Hold!”

Seeing that Hyde had thrust his one hand beneath his blouse, seeking, no doubt, for some concealed weapon, Hobson suddenly struck a bell on the table before him.

Four men rushed in.

“Seize him before he can use his arm!  Seize him, and unmask him!”

The ruffians, laying violent hands on Hyde, tore off his blouse and dragged the wig with its elaborate curls from his head.  In the struggle he gave a sharp cry of pain.  They had touched too roughly the still helpless arm which hung in its sling beneath the blouse.

“Ah!  I knew I could not be mistaken.  It is you, then, Rupert Gascoigne!  I thought I recognised you from the first, although it is years and years since we met.”

“Not quite, villain!  Cowardly traitor, murderer, despoiler of the dead!”