Dr Gollipeck gurgled pleasantly in his throat at this and laughed, that is, something apparently went wrong in his inside and a rasping noise came out of his mouth.

‘You clever young man,’ he said, affectionately, to Gaston, as he unwound a long crimson woollen scarf from his throat, and thereby caused a button to fly off his waistcoat with the exertion.  Dr Gollipeck, however, being used to these little eccentricities of his toilet, pinned the waistcoat together, and then, sitting down, spread his red bandanna handkerchief over his knees, and stared steadily at Vandeloup, who had put on a loose velvet smoking coat, and, with a cigarette in his mouth, was leaning against the mantelpiece.  It was raining outside, and the pleasant patter of the raindrops was quite audible in the stillness of the room, while every now and then a gust of wind would make the windows rattle, and shake the heavy green curtains.  The two men eyed one another keenly, for they both knew they had an unpleasant quarter of an hour before them, and were like two clever fencers—­both watching their opportunity to begin the combat.  Gollipeck, with his greasy coat, all rucked up behind his neck, and his frayed shirt cuffs coming down on his ungainly hands, sat sternly silent, so Vandeloup, after contemplating him for a few moments, had to begin the battle.

‘My room is untidy, is it not?’ he said, nodding his head carelessly at the chaos of furniture.  ‘I’m going away for a few days.’

‘A few days; ha, ha!’ observed Gollipeck, something again going wrong with his inside.  ’Your destination is—­

‘Sydney,’ replied Gaston, promptly.

‘And then?’ queried the doctor.

Gaston shrugged his shoulders.

‘Depends upon circumstances,’ he answered, lazily.

‘That’s a mistake,’ retorted Gollipeck, leaning forward; ’it depends upon me.’

Vandeloup smiled.

’In that case, circumstances, as represented by you, will permit me to choose my own destinations.’

’Depends entirely upon your being guided by circumstances, as represented by me,’ retorted the Doctor, grimly.

‘Pshaw!’ said the Frenchman, coolly, ’let us have done with allegory, and come to common sense.  What do you want?’

‘I want Octave Braulard,’ said Gollipeck, rising to his feet.

Vandeloup quite expected this, and was too clever to waste time in denying his identity.

‘He stands before you,’ he answered, curtly, ‘what then?’

’You acknowledge, then, that you are Octave Braulard, transported to New Caledonia for the murder of Adele Blondet?’ said the Doctor tapping the table with one hand.

‘To you—­yes,’ answered Vandeloup, crossing to the door and locking it; ‘to others—­no.’

‘Why do you lock the door?’ asked Gollipeck, gruffly.

‘I don’t want my private affairs all over Melbourne,’ retorted Gaston, smoothly, returning to his position in front of the fireplace; ‘are you afraid?’