Then, turning to the old man, he said:

"Here's your son, you unnatural father!"

Patrice entered the room with his head bandaged, for the blow which Simeon had struck him and the weight of the tombstone had opened his old wounds. He was very pale and seemed to be in great pain.

At the sight of Simeon Diodokis he gave signs of terrible anger. He controlled himself, however. The two men stood facing each other, without stirring, and Don Luis, rubbing his hands, said, in an undertone:

"What a scene! What a splendid scene? Isn't it well-arranged? The father and the son! The murderer and his victim! Listen to the orchestra! . . .

A slight tremolo. . . . What are they going to do? Will the son kill his father or the father kill his son? A thrilling moment. . . . And the mighty silence! Only the call of the blood is heard . . . and in what terms! Now we're off! The call of the blood has sounded; and they are going to throw themselves into each other's arms, the better to strangle the life out of each other!"

Patrice had taken two steps forward; and the movement suggested by Don Luis was about to be performed. Already the officer's arms were flung wide for the fight. But suddenly Simeon, weakened by pain and dominated by a stronger will than his own, let himself go and implored his adversary:

"Patrice!" he entreated. "Patrice! What are you thinking of doing?"

Stretching out his hands, he threw himself upon the other's pity; and Patrice, arrested in his onrush, stood perplexed, staring at the man to whom he was bound by so mysterious and strange a tie:

"Coralie," he said, without lowering his hands, "Coralie . . . tell me where she is and I'll spare your life."

The old man started. His evil nature was stimulated by the remembrance of Coralie; and he recovered a part of his energy at the possibility of wrong-doing. He gave a cruel laugh:

"No, no," he answered. "Coralie in one scale and I in the other? I'd rather die. Besides, Coralie's hiding-place is where the gold is. No, never! I may just as well die."

"Kill him then, captain," said Don Luis, intervening. "Kill him, since he prefers it."

Once more the thought of immediate murder and revenge sent the red blood rushing to the officer's face. But the same hesitation unnerved him.

"No, no," he said, in a low voice, "I can't do it."

"Why not?" Don Luis insisted. "It's so easy. Come along! Wring his neck, like a chicken's, and have done with it!"

"I can't."

"But why? Do you dislike the thought of strangling him? Does it repel you? And yet, if it were a Boche, on the battlefield . . ."

"Yes . . . but this man . . ."

"Is it your hands that refuse? The idea of taking hold of the flesh and squeezing? . . . Here, captain, take my revolver and blow out his brains."

Patrice accepted the weapon eagerly and aimed it at old Simeon. The silence was appalling. Old Simeon's eyes had closed and drops of sweat were streaming down his livid cheeks.

At last the officer lowered his arm:

"I can't do it," he said.

"Nonsense," said Don Luis. "Get on with the work."

"No. . . . No. . . ."

"But, in Heaven's name, why not?"

"I can't."

"You can't? Shall I tell you the reason? You are thinking of that man as if he were your father."

"Perhaps it's that," said the officer, speaking very low. "There's a chance of it, you know."

"What does it matter, if he's a beast and a blackguard?"

"No, no, I haven't the right. Let him die by all means, but not by my hand. I haven't the right."

"You have the right."

"No, it would be abominable! It would be monstrous!"

Don Luis went up to him and, tapping him on the shoulder, said, gravely:

"You surely don't believe that I should stand here, urging you to kill that man, if he were your father?"

Patrice looked at him wildly:

"Do you know something? Do you know something for certain? Oh, for Heaven's sake . . . !"

Don Luis continued:

"Do you believe that I would even encourage you to hate him, if he were your father?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Patrice. "Do you mean that he's not my father?"

"Of course he's not!" cried Don Luis, with irresistible conviction and increasing eagerness. "Your father indeed! Why, look at him! Look at that scoundrelly head. Every sort of vice and violence is written on the brute's face. Throughout this adventure, from the first day to the last, there was not a crime committed but was his handiwork: not one, do you follow me? There were not two criminals, as we thought, not Essares, to begin the h.e.l.lish business, and old Simeon, to finish it. There was only one criminal, one, do you understand, Patrice? Before killing Coralie and Ya-Bon and Vacherot the porter and the woman who was his own accomplice, he killed others! He killed one other in particular, one whose flesh and blood you are, the man whose dying cries you heard over the telephone, the man who called you Patrice and who only lived for you! He killed that man; and that man was your father, Patrice; he was Armand Belval! Now do you understand?"

Patrice did not understand. Don Luis' words fell uncomprehended; not one of them lit up the darkness of Patrice's brain. However, one thought insistently possessed him; and he stammered:

"_That_ was my father? I heard his voice, you say? Then it was _he_ who called to me?"

"Yes, Patrice, your father."

"And the man who killed him . . . ?"

"Was this one," said Don Luis, pointing to Simeon.

The old man remained motionless, wild-eyed, like a felon awaiting sentence of death. Patrice, quivering with rage, stared at him fixedly:

"Who are you? Who are you?" he asked. And, turning to Don Luis, "Tell me his name, I beseech you. I want to know his name, before I destroy him."

"His name? Haven't you guessed it yet? Why, from the very first day, I took it for granted! After all, it was the only possible theory."

"But what theory? What was it you took for granted?" cried Patrice, impatiently.

"Do you really want to know?"