Faringhea seemed struck with astonishment.  All that he had just heard seemed very probable.  Rodin might seize upon him, the letter, and the medal, and, by keeping him prisoner, prevent Djalma from being awakened.  And yet Rodin ordered him to leave the house, at the moment when Faringhea had imagined himself so formidable.  As he thought for the motives of this inexplicable conduct, it struck him that Rodin, notwithstanding the proofs he had brought him, did not yet believe that Djalma was in his power.  On that theory, the contempt of Van Dael’s correspondent admitted of a natural explanation.  But Rodin was playing a bold and skillful game; and, while he appeared to mutter to himself, as in anger, he was observing, with intense anxiety, the Strangler’s countenance.

The latter, almost certain that he had divined the secret motive of Rodin, replied:  “I am going—­but one word more.  You think I deceive you?”

“I am certain of it.  You have told me nothing but a tissue of fables, and I have lost much time in listening to them.  Spare me the rest; it is late—­and I should like to be alone.”

“One minute more:  you are a man, I see, from whom nothing should be hid,” said Faringhea, “from Djalma, I could now only expect alms and disdain—­for, with a character like this, to say to him, ’Pay me, because I might have betrayed you and did not,’ would be to provoke his anger and contempt.  I could have killed him twenty times over, but his day is not yet come,” said the Thug, with a gloomy air; “and to wait for that and other fatal days, I must have gold, much gold.  You alone can pay me for the betrayal of Djalma, for you alone profit by it.  You refuse to hear me, because you think I am deceiving you.  But I took the direction of the inn where we stopped—­and here it is.  Send some one to ascertain the truth of what I tell you, and then you will believe me.  But the price of my services will be high; for I told you that I wanted much.”

So saying, Faringhea offered a printed card to Rodin:  the socius, who, out of the corner of his eye, followed all the half-caste’s movements, appeared to be absorbed in thought, and taking no heed of anything.

“Here is the address,” repeated Faringhea, as he held out the card to Rodin; “assure yourself that I do not lie.”

“Eh? what is it?” said the other, casting a rapid but stolen glance at the address, which he read greedily, without touching the card.

“Take this address,” repeated the half-caste, “and you may then assure yourself—­”

“Really, sir,” cried Rodin, pushing back the card with his hand, “your impudence confounds me.  I repeat that I wish to have nothing in common with you.  For the last time, I tell you to leave the house.  I know nothing about your Prince Djalma.  You say you can injure me—­do so—­make no ceremonies—­but, in heaven’s name, leave me to myself.”

So saying, Rodin rang the bell violently.  Faringhea made a movement as if to stand upon the defensive; but only the old servant, with his quiet and placid mien, appeared at the door.