"I think that there was a struggle, that Ya-Bon was wounded and that Simeon . . ."

"That Simeon escaped?"

"Or else was killed. However, we shall know all about it in a few minutes."

He set the ladder against the railing at the top of the wall. Patrice climbed over with Don Luis' a.s.sistance. Then, stepping over the railing in his turn, Don Luis drew up the ladder, threw it into the garden and made a careful examination. Finally, they turned their steps, through the tall gra.s.ses and bushy shrubs, towards the lodge.

The daylight was increasing rapidly and the outlines of everything were becoming clearer. The two men walked round the lodge, Don Luis leading the way. When he came in sight of the yard, on the street side, he turned and said: "I was right."

And he ran forward.

Outside the hall-door lay the bodies of the two adversaries, clutching each other in a confused heap. Ya-Bon had a horrible wound in the head, from which the blood was flowing all over his face. With his right hand he held Simeon by the throat.

Don Luis at once perceived that Ya-Bon was dead and Simeon Diodokis alive.

CHAPTER XVII

SIMeON GIVES BATTLE

It took them some time to loosen Ya-Bon's grip. Even in death the Senegalese did not let go his prey; and his fingers, hard as iron and armed with nails piercing as a tiger's claws, dug into the neck of the enemy, who lay gurgling, deprived of consciousness and strength.

Don Luis caught sight of Simeon's revolver on the cobbles of the yard:

"It was lucky for you, you old ruffian," he said, in a low voice, "that Ya-Bon did not have time to squeeze the breath out of you before you fired that shot. But I wouldn't chortle overmuch, if I were you. He might perhaps have spared you, whereas, now that Ya-Bon's dead, you can write to your family and book your seat below. _De profundis_, Diodokis!" And, giving way to his grief, he added, "Poor Ya-Bon! He saved me from a horrible death one day in Africa . . . and to-day he dies by my orders, so to speak. My poor Ya-Bon!"

a.s.sisted by Patrice, he carried the negro's corpse into the little bedroom next to the studio.

"We'll inform the police this evening, captain, when the drama is finished. For the moment, it's a matter of avenging him and the others."

He thereupon applied himself to making a minute inspection of the scene of the struggle, after which he went back to Ya-Bon and then to Simeon, whose clothes and shoes he examined closely.

Patrice was face to face with his terrible enemy, whom he had propped against the wall of the lodge and was contemplating in silence, with a fixed stare of hatred. Simeon! Simeon Diodokis, the execrable demon who, two days before, had hatched the terrible plot and, bending over the skylight, had laughed as he watched their awful agony! Simeon Diodokis, who, like a wild beast, had hidden Coralie in some hole, so that he might go back and torture her at his ease!

He seemed to be in pain and to breathe with great difficulty. His wind-pipe had no doubt been injured by Ya-Bon's clutch. His yellow spectacles had fallen off during the fight. A pair of thick, grizzled eyebrows lowered about his heavy lids.

"Search him, captain," said Don Luis.

But, as Patrice seemed to shrink from the task, he himself felt in Simeon's jacket and produced a pocket-book, which he handed to the officer.

It contained first of all a registration-card, in the name of Simeon Diodokis, Greek subject, with his photograph gummed to it. The photograph was a recent one, taken with the spectacles, the comforter and the long hair, and bore a police-stamp dated December, 1914. There was a collection of business doc.u.ments, invoices and memoranda, addressed to Simeon as Essares Bey's secretary, and, among these papers, a letter from Amedee Vacherot, running as follows:

"_Dear M. Simeon_,

"I have succeeded. A young friend of mine has taken a snapshot of Mme. Essares and Patrice at the hospital, at a moment when they were talking together. I am so glad to be able to gratify you. But when will you tell your dear son the truth? How delighted he will be when he hears it!"

At the foot of the letter were a few words in Simeon's hand, a sort of personal note:

"Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to reveal anything to my dearly-beloved son until Coralie, my bride, is avenged and until Patrice and Coralie Essares are free to love each other and to marry."

"That's your father's writing, is it not?" asked Don Luis.

"Yes," said Patrice, in bewilderment. "And it is also the writing of the letters which he addressed to his friend Vacherot. Oh, it's too hideous to be true! What a man! What a scoundrel!"

Simeon moved. His eyes opened and closed repeatedly. Then, coming to himself entirely, he looked at Patrice, who at once, in a stifled voice, asked:

"Where's Coralie?"

And, as Simeon, still dazed, seemed not to understand and sat gazing at him stupidly, he repeated, in a harsher tone:

"Where's Coralie? What have you done with her? Where have you put her?

She must be dying!"

Simeon was gradually recovering life and consciousness. He mumbled:

"Patrice. . . . Patrice. . . ."

He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice's rage increased:

"Will you attend?" he shouted. "I won't wait any longer! It'll cost you your life if you don't answer!"

The man's eyes opened again, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He pointed to his throat to indicate his difficulty in speaking. At last, with a visible effort, he repeated:

"Patrice! Is it you? . . . I have been waiting for this moment so long!

. . . And now we are meeting as enemies! . . ."

"As mortal enemies," said Patrice, with emphasis. "Death stands between us: Ya-Bon's death, Coralie's perhaps. . . . Where is she? You must speak, or . . ."

"Patrice, is it really you?" the man repeated, in a whisper.

The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Simeon had seen the pocket-book which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice's roughness, whined:

"You wouldn't hurt me, Patrice. You must have found some letters; and you now know the link that binds us together. Oh, how happy I should have been . . . !"

Patrice had released his hold and stood staring at him in horror.

Sinking his voice in his turn, he said:

"Don't dare to speak of that: I won't, I won't believe it!"

"It's the truth, Patrice."

"You lie! You lie!" cried the officer, unable to restrain himself any longer, while his grief distorted his face out of all recognition.

"Ah, I see you have guessed it! Then I need not explain . . ."

"You lie! You're just a common scoundrel! . . . If what you say is true, why did you plot against Coralie and me? Why did you try to murder the two of us?"