"Who are they?"

"You shall see."

With that answer, he raised his voice and
spoke the next words—the two common words
which are on everybody's lips, at every hour of
the day: "Come in!"

The brown door opened. Supported on
Marguerite's arm—his sunburnt colour gone, his
right arm bandaged and slung over his breast—
Vendale stood before the murderer, a man risen
from the dead.

In the moment of silence that followed, the
singing of a caged bird in the courtyard
outside was the one sound stirring in the room.
Maître Voigt touched Bintrey, and pointed to
Obenreizer. "Look at him!" said the notary,
in a whisper.

The shock had paralysed every movement in
the villain's body, but the movement of the
blood. His face was like the face of a corpse.
The one vestige of colour left in it was a livid
purple streak which marked the course of the
scar, where his victim had wounded him on the
cheek and neck. Speechless, breathless, motionless
alike in eye and limb, it seemed as if, at the
sight of Vendale, the death to which he had
doomed Vendale had struck him where he
stood.

"Somebody ought to speak to him," said
Maître Voigt. "Shall I?

Even at that moment, Bintrey persisted in
silencing the notary, and in keeping the lead in
the proceedings to himself. Checking Maître
Voigt by a gesture, he dismissed Marguerite
and Vendale in these words:—"The object of
your appearance here is answered," he said.
"If you will withdraw for the present, it may
help Mr. Obenreizer to recover himself."

It did help him. As the two passed through
the door, and closed it behind them, he drew a
deep breath of relief. He looked round him for
the chair from which he had risen, and dropped
into it.

"Give him time!" pleaded Maître Voigt.

"No," said Bintrey. "I don't know what
use he may make of it, if I do." He turned
once more to Obenreizer, and went on. "I owe
it to myself," he said—" I don't admit, mind,
that I owe it to you—to account for my
appearance in these proceedings, and to
state what has been done under my advice,
and on my sole responsibility. Can you listen
to me?"

"I can listen to you."

"Recall the time when you started for
Switzerland with Mr. Vendale, "Bintrey began. "You
had not left England four-and-twenty hours,
before your niece committed an act of
imprudence which not even your penetration could
foresee. She followed her promised husband on
his journey, without asking anybody's advice or
permission, and without any better companion
to protect her than a Cellarman in Mr. Vendale's
employment."

"Why did she follow me on the journey?
and how came the Cellarman to be the person
who accompanied her?"

"She followed you on the journey," answered
Bintrey, "because she suspected there had been
some serious collision between you and Mr.
Vendale, which had been kept secret from her;
and because she rightly believed you to be
capable of serving your interests, or of
satisfying your enmity, at the price of a crime.
As for the Cellarman, he was one, among
the other people in Mr. Vendale's
establishment, to whom she had applied (the
moment your back was turned) to know
if anything had happened between their
master and you. The Cellarman alone had
something to tell her. A senseless superstition,
and a common accident which had happened to
his master, in his master's cellar, had connected
Mr. Vendale in this man's mind with the idea
of danger by murder. Your niece surprised
him into a confession, which aggravated tenfold
the terrors that possessed her. Aroused to a
sense of the mischief he had done, the man, of
his own accord, made the one atonement in his
power. 'If my master is in danger, miss,' he
said, 'it's my duty to follow him, too; and it's
more than my duty to take care of you.' The
two set forth together—and, for once, a
superstition has had its use. It decided your niece
on taking the journey; and it led the way
to saving a man's life. Do you understand me,
so far?"

"I understand you, so far."

"My first knowledge of the crime that you
had committed," pursued Bintrey, "came to
me in the form of a letter from your niece. All
you need know is that her love and her courage
recovered the body of your victim, and aided the
after-efforts which brought him back to life.
While he lay helpless at Brieg, under her care,
she wrote to me to come out to him. Before
starting, I informed Madame Dor that I knew
Miss Obenreizer to be safe, and knew where she
was. Madame Dor informed me, in return,
that a letter had come for your niece, which she
knew to be in your handwriting. I took possession
of it, and arranged for the forwarding of
any other letters which might follow. Arrived
at Brieg, I found Mr. Vendale out of danger,
and at once devoted myself to hastening the day
of reckoning with you. Defresnier and
Company turned you off on suspicion; acting on
information privately supplied by me. Having
stripped you of your false character, the next
thing to do was to strip you of your authority
over your niece. To reach this end, I not only
had no scruple in digging the pitfall under your
feet in the dark—I felt a certain professional
pleasure in fighting you with your own weapons.
By my advice, the truth has been carefully
concealed from you, up to this day. By my advice,
the trap into which you have walked was set for
you (you know why, now, as well as I do) in
this place. There was but one certain way of
shaking the devilish self-control which has
hitherto made you a formidable man. That way
has been tried, and (look at me as you may)
that way has succeeded. The last thing that
remains to be done," concluded Bintrey,
producing two little slips of manuscript from his
despatch-box, "is to set your niece free. You