“I will again humbly observe to you, M. Faringhea, that I have no time to give you a course of criminal jurisprudence; but, believe me, you had better resist the temptation to strangle or poison any one.  One word more:  will you deliver up to me the letters of M. Van Dael, or not?”

“The letters relative to Prince Djalma?” said the half-caste, looking fixedly at Rodin, who, notwithstanding a sharp and sudden twinge, remained impenetrable, and answered with the utmost simplicity:  “Not knowing what the letters which you, sir, are pleased to keep from me, may contain, it is impossible for me to answer your question.  I beg, and if necessary, I demand, that you will hand me those letters—­or that you will retire.”

“In a few minutes, brother, you will entreat me to remain.”

“I doubt it.”

“A few words will operate—­this miracle.  If just now I spoke to you about poisoning, brother, it was because you sent a doctor to Cardoville Castle, to poison (at least for a time) Prince Djalma.”

In spite of himself, Rodin started almost imperceptibly, as he replied:  “I do not understand you.”

“It is true, that I am a poor foreigner, and doubtless speak with an accent; I will try and explain myself better.  I know, by Van Dael’s letters, the interest you have that Prince Djalma should not be here to morrow, and all that you have done with this view.  Do you understand me now?”

“I have no answer for you.”

Two cautious taps at the door here interrupted the conversation.  “Come in,” said Rodin.

“The letter has been taken to its address, sir,” said the old servant, bowing, “and here is the answer.”

Rodin took the paper, and, before he opened it, said courteously to Faringhea:  “With your permission, sir?”

“Make no ceremonies,” said the half-caste.

“You are very kind,” replied Rodin, as, having read the letter he received, he wrote hastily some words at the bottom, saying:  “Send this back to the same address.”

The servant bowed respectfully, and withdrew.

“Now can I continue"’ asked the half-caste, of Rodin.

“Certainly.”

“I will continue, then,” resumed Faringhea: 

“The day before yesterday, just as the prince, all wounded as he was, was about, by my advice, to take his departure for Paris, a fine carriage arrived, with superb presents for Djalma, from an unknown friend.  In this carriage were two men—­one sent by the unknown friend—­the other a doctor, sent by you to attend upon Djalma, and accompany him to Paris.  It was a charitable act, brother—­was it not so?”

“Go on with your story, sir.”