M. DE VILLEFORT.
Frank Merriwell’s movements had been equally swift. The instant the
light went out, he swung his body far to one side, and thus it happened
that Bruant’s hands grasped nothing when he made that savage clutch
across the table. But the violence of his spring flung the table against
Frank, who was unable to extricate himself, and over they went, with a
crash, upon the floor.
A curse escaped the lips of the Strangler.
“You can’t escape my hands!” he hissed.
He caught hold of Merry, and it was wonderful how swiftly his hands
leaped up to the throat of the young American, and fastened there. Frank
felt that the supreme moment had come. He pushed the muzzle of his
revolver against one of the fellow’s elbows, and fired upward. The
bullet must have shattered the man’s arm, and the hold on Frank’s throat
relaxed in a moment.
“Hereafter,” said the American youth, “you will do your strangling with
one hand!”
A furious snarl of anger and pain came from the wounded wretch, and,
striking out with his fist, judging well where to hit, Frank Merriwell
struck Bruant down in the dark. Then, in a most remarkable manner, he
found his way across the room to the door that had closed behind him
when he entered. Satisfied he had reached the door, he flung his
shoulder against it, and burst it open.
The old man in the front shop stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Monsieur,” said Frank quietly, “the man in the back room needs the
services of a skilful surgeon.”
Then he walked out of the place, and no hand was raised to halt him. He
was not a little surprised at the easy manner in which he had escaped,
for he had expected to fight his way out of a nest of desperadoes.
Even after he was on the street, and walking swiftly from that spot, it
did not seem possible he had been fortunate enough to get away so
quickly, and with such little difficulty. On leaving the shop, he had
returned the revolver to his pocket, as a man hurrying along the streets
of Paris at night, with a loaded revolver in his grasp, is sure to
attract considerable attention.
Just then attention was something little desired by Frank. He had been
forced to use his revolver in self-defense, but he had not shot to kill.
He felt sure he had simply broken the arm of the man who had clutched
his throat. When it was all over, Frank wondered somewhat at his perfect
tranquillity, for he was not shaking in the least.
In Paris, he had expected to rest, and enjoy life. He had fancied no
dangers would beset him there, but he had found such dangers as he had
seldom known, and his adventures were of the most sensational nature.
When he was a little distance from the shop, he felt in his pocket, to
make sure the precious metal ball was still there. His fingers found it,
and he was well satisfied.
“Not till the right one comes will I part with it,” he muttered.
Now he felt certain the Duke of Benoit du Sault had spoken nothing but
the simple truth when he claimed that in some manner the tiny ball might
help to establish the innocence of the captive of Devil’s Island. No
longer was he inclined to believe the duke mentally unbalanced. He was
now willing to accept the story of the Black Brothers and the blood-red
star. It was uncanny and weird enough, and still it aroused in him a
desire to solve the mystery, and learn the whole truth.
Frank walked swiftly, now and then turning, to make sure he was not
followed. Unstopped and unmolested, he made his way straight to the
hotel. There he found Diamond and Rattleton, engaged in a game of
pinochle, while Browning reclined on a couch, and filled the room with
smoke. Tutor Maybe was sleeping soundly in bed, where he had been for
some hours.
“Look here, Merriwell,” cried Rattleton, as Frank appeared, “this thing
must stop!”
“That’s right,” grunted Browning, while Diamond looked at Merry
reproachfully and accusingly, and said nothing.
“What’s the matter with you fellows?” asked Frank, with a smile.
“Looks happy, doesn’t he?” chuckled Rattleton, winking at Bruce.
“As a clam,” said the big fellow. “He must have had a very pleasant time
this evening.”
“I have,” confessed Merry. “I have enjoyed myself exceedingly, I assure
you.”
“The brazen creature!” gasped Rattleton. “My! my! but I never thought it
of him!”
“Nor I,” came from the big fellow on the couch. “I say, Merry, what’s
her name?”
“What’s who’s name?”
“Oh, don’t give us any of that!” said Harry. “It won’t go with this
crowd!”
“I should say nit!” growled Bruce good-naturedly. “Own right up like a
man. What’s her name? Is she an artist’s model? Oh, I’ll bet you’ve been
over in the Quarter!”
“And only away from Elsie Bellwood such a short time!” said Diamond,
more in reproof than in jest. “I did not think it of you, Frank!”
Frank laughed pleasantly.
“My dear boys,” he said, “you are off your trolleys.”
“Now, don’t tell us there isn’t a girl in it!” shouted Rattleton,
flinging down his cards, and rising to his feet. “I have always regarded
you as the soul of veracity, and I do not wish to lose faith in you
now.”
“Remember, my dear boy,” said Browning in a fatherly way, “that you are
in Paris—naughty Paris. You must have a care not to lose your veracity
along with your other good qualities.”
“It is the second evening you have been out alone,” said Harry. “You are
not in the habit of meandering around all by yourself in a strange city.
You are a person who enjoys company.”
“I’m afraid he’s had company enough,” said Diamond soberly.
Now, when Frank thought of what had actually happened, and what his
friends seemed to imagine had happened, he sat down and laughed most
heartily.
“He’s becoming depraved fast!” exclaimed Rattleton. “He can laugh over
it in a heartless manner.”
“Yes; he’s going to the dogs, sure enough!” grunted Bruce. “It’s a
shame! He was able to withstand temptation till he came here to naughty
Paris.”
“Boys,” said Diamond, “I’m afraid it’s no joking-matter.”
And that made Frank laugh still harder.
Wiping his eyes, Merry said:
“My dear Diamond, surely you have not been affected by the air of Paris?
You are constant enough to Juliet, whom you left in England.”
Jack’s face turned crimson.
“Oh, that’s nothing serious!” he protested, scowling at Frank, and
trying to make Merry understand that he did not wish too much said
before the others.
But Harry and Bruce were quick to catch on, and they made it rather warm
for Diamond for some minutes.
“Oh, you fellows think you are smart!” exclaimed the Virginian. “You are
ready to turn from Frank any time, and pick at me, but you can carry it
too far!”
“Take your medicine,” advised Browning. “Don’t fly off the handle. You
must stand a little jollying, when your turn comes. You laughed with the
others when the alarm-clock joke was worked on me.”
The boys tried to induce Frank to tell where he had been, but he kept
them guessing, till, at last, Browning and Rattleton gave up in disgust,
and went to bed. Frank was preparing to retire, when Diamond came and
sat down near-by. Merry took the revolver from his pocket, wiped it out,
and slipped a fresh cartridge into the cylinder. Jack regarded him
curiously while he was doing this.
“Have you been carrying that around?” asked the Virginian.
“I took it with me this evening,” nodded Merry.
“And used it?”
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
“I am not in the habit of using a pistol unless it is necessary.”
Diamond looked puzzled and troubled.
“See here, Frank,” he said, “you have been acting rather strange for a
day or two.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. What’s up?”
“Perhaps I may tell you sometime.”
“Merriwell, am I your friend?”
Frank turned about, and faced Diamond, who looked very grave and
earnest.
“I sincerely hope you are, and I have every reason to believe so,” he
said.
Jack was nervous.
“I have something to say to you,” he faltered.
“Well, old man, I am ready to listen. Go ahead.”
Plainly, it was not easy for the Southerner to begin. Frank was
surprised to see Jack so embarrassed.
“I am ready to listen,” said Frank quietly. “Fire away, old man.”
“Merriwell, as I am your friend, I hope you will take in good part what
I have to say.”
“Don’t fear about that, Jack. Go ahead.”
“I know Paris is a rather giddy place, and—and——” Jack paused, to clear
his throat, flushing, and looking more embarrassed than ever. “There is
something in the atmosphere here that seems to take hold of the most
staid.”
“Yes; a fellow feels new life and buoyancy.” Frank wished to say
something to encourage the Virginian, although he was wondering more
than ever what his companion could be driving at.
“Yes. Some old men, who must be good, sober citizens at home, act in a
most ridiculous manner as soon as they come here. I have seen some of
them in this hotel. They are giddy, and they make me sick!”
“But I fail to see what connection this has with me.”
“Er——Oh, it doesn’t have any real connection, but——Why, what I want to
say is, that you have—you have acted rather strange for a day or two.”
“You said that before.”
“I believe I did. Don’t you ever think of Elsie since coming to Paris,
Frank?”
“Every day.”
“But, you know, you have been so strange—you have taken to going out
alone—and—and you haven’t seemed to want anybody to go with you,
especially at night. Now, Frank, are you sure you have not been affected
by the atmosphere here? Are you sure you think of Elsie as much as you
should?”
Frank stared in open-mouthed amazement for some moments, and then he
dropped on a chair, bursting into a hearty, ringing laugh.
“By Jove!” he cried. “I didn’t think that was what you were driving at,
old man! I didn’t suppose you could really think such a thing of me! Oh,
say, it’s too much! And you are all ready to give me a dose of fatherly
advice! Oh, ha! ha! ha! Say, this is the funniest thing yet!”
Jack was crimson.
“Don’t!” he pleaded; “don’t laugh at me like that! Those fellows will
hear you, and they’ll be rubbering around in a minute! Please don’t
laugh, Frank!”
“How can I help it?” gasped Merry, trying to repress his mirth. “It is
too ludicrous! And you really thought I must be running after a girl, or
girls, because I have acted odd! Oh, Jack!”
“Well, now, you must confess that I had reasons. Rattleton and Browning
think so, too.”
“Do they? Well, let them think. It makes no difference to me. I will
take the trouble to tell you that nothing of the kind has happened.
Don’t be silly, old man. I appreciate all the good advice you were about
to give me, but it isn’t needed.”
Diamond felt decidedly awkward, but Frank put him at his ease with a few
words. The Virginian apologized, but Merry assured him that apologies
were not needed.
“Perhaps to-morrow, or the next day,” he said, “I may have something to
tell you.”
“If you are in danger——” began Jack.
“One never knows when danger may come,” interrupted Frank.
“You seldom carry a revolver. When you do——”
“It is liable to be needed.”
“And you needed it to-night?”
“Rather. I used it.”
Merry would make no further explanation, and Diamond went to bed that
night much mystified and not a little troubled.
It was not at all remarkable that Frank Merriwell did not sleep very
well that night. Surely, it would have been remarkable if he had. His
slumbers were broken by dreams of blood-red stars, men in black, and a
pair of large, sinewy, evil hands. In his dreams, he fought again and
again to keep those hands from his throat.
In the morning, his friends noticed that he looked worn and unlike
himself. Diamond, perhaps, thought most of it, and he decided that Merry
must be in some serious trouble. Jack longed to urge Frank to unbosom
himself, but felt that it might be better to wait till Merry should do
so of his own accord. After breakfast, Merriwell began pegging away at
his studies, much to the satisfaction of Tutor Maybe. Browning, Diamond,
and Rattleton went out for an “airing.”
Midway in the forenoon a card was brought Frank. On it was engraved the
name, “Murat de Villefort.” Beneath the name was written, with a
lead-pencil, “Justice calls!” Murat de Villefort proved to be a tall,
slender, supple-appearing man, with a coal-black mustache and imperial.
His face was rather harsh and stern, but his manners were pleasant and
acceptable.
Frank surveyed the man critically, wondering if he could be another
impostor.
“Monsieur Merriwell,” said the visitor, “I trust you will be glad of the
opportunity to get rid of your charge.”
“Of what do you speak?” asked Frank evasively.
“I speak of that for which I have called.”
“You will have to speak still more plainly, monsieur.”
“Excuse me,” said M. de Villefort coldly. “I fear you are demanding too
much. You have but to discharge your duty, and deliver it into my
hands.”
“When I am certain it will be discharging my duty, I may deliver the
‘it’ of which you speak. You are not the first who has sought it.”
“I am not?”
“No.”
“But you have not let it go?” cried the man in apparent alarm. “Don’t
tell me you have let it pass from your hands! _Mon Dieu!_ If you have,
all is ruined!”
He seemed very sincere in his alarm.
“I assure you that nothing passes from my hands till I am certain it
passes into the possession of the proper person.”
De Villefort seemed relieved. He drew a deep breath, saying:
“I feared for a moment that you had been deceived into giving it up to
some impostor.”
“Impostors do not succeed very well with me, monsieur.”
“You are very shrewd, Monsieur Merriwell,” bowed the Frenchman, in a
flattering manner. “It was fortunate for justice that you were chosen as
the guardian of such treasure.”
“Thank you. Then you know nothing of my encounter with one who sought to
obtain it from me?”
“Nothing, monsieur. When did this happen?”
“Last night. In a little shop not far from Gare St. Lazare.”
“And were you given the sign?”
“In part.”
“By whom?”
“One who called himself Claude Bruant, and claimed to be known as the
Strangler.”
De Villefort started.
“The Strangler?” he cried. “A desperate wretch, who has been well paid
by the enemies of justice to do their vile work! And you escaped his
hands?”
“I am here.”
“I see. It is remarkable. You are very wonderful. How did you escape?”
“With the aid of this,” said Merry, quietly taking his revolver from his
pocket. “I doubt much if the Strangler ever has much use of one of his
hands again, as I shattered his arm with a bullet.”
Again De Villefort complimented Frank in a most profuse manner.
“Justice owes you a greater debt than it can ever repay,” he declared.
“If the captive of Devil’s Island ever escapes, it may be that he will
owe his salvation to you.”
“You are complimentary, indeed, M. de Villefort. I assure you, I
appreciate your words very highly.”
And still Frank made no move to deliver the little ball into the man’s
hands, for De Villefort had not given the complete signal. The man held
out his hand.
“Now, I presume, you will answer the call of justice, Monsieur
Merriwell.”
Frank smiled coolly.
“Perhaps as I answered it last night.”
De Villefort frowned.
“This is no time for delay,” he said sternly. “With me, time is
precious.”
“Thus far, then, you have wasted it,” declared Frank, growing more and
more suspicious.
All at once, as if struck by a sudden thought, the Frenchman flung out
his hand, with a strange gesture. An instant later, he lifted that hand
to his eyes, saying:
“Justice calls.”
It was the signal, and, at last, it had been given correctly. It came as
a surprise to Frank, for he had begun to believe that De Villefort would
fail to give it. Merry hesitated, for, even though the signal had been
given, he felt a strange reluctance to part with the precious ball
delivered into his hands by the dead Duke of Benoit de Sault.
The Frenchman lowered his eyes, and stood looking at the youth
expectantly, commandingly. Slowly, Frank felt in his pocket for the
precious ball. He felt a great desire to know what secret it contained
that might serve to bring justice to the wretched prisoner of Devil’s
Island.
Merry drew the metal ball from his pocket, and the eyes of De Villefort
glittered strangely when he saw it. The man seemed to be holding himself
in check.
“Here it is,” said Frank regretfully. “I have thought that I should be
glad to get rid of it, but now I part with it most reluctantly, I
confess.”
Then he looked up suddenly, and surprised that strange, crafty,
triumphant look in the glittering eyes of the Frenchman. It gave Frank a
shock. It was as if some one had shouted into his ears, “Beware—beware!
He is fooling you!” Frank had been on the point of delivering up the
mysterious ball, but now he hesitated.
De Villefort became aware that something had aroused the suspicions of
the shrewd American. And then, like a flash, the Frenchman’s arm darted
out, and his fingers snatched the ball from Frank! That act told Frank
Merriwell as plainly as words that the man had no right to the tiny
sphere.
“Thank you, Monsieur Merriwell!” cried Murat de Villefort triumphantly.
“You have guarded the treasure well, and you may be consoled to know it
has reached good hands at last.”
He laughed outright, and that laugh was as if he had struck Merriwell
between the eyes. It removed the last doubt from Frank’s mind. Although
the man had given the signal, he had no right to the metal ball. The
precious sphere had fallen into the hands of the enemies of Dreyfus!
That ball had brought nothing but trouble and danger to Frank, and
almost any other person would have felt gladness to get rid of it,
especially as he could know he had fulfilled his promise to the dead
duke. Not so Frank Merriwell. In an instant flashed before his eyes a
vision of the poor wretch on the burning rock of Devil’s Island, doomed
to spend the remainder of his days there, just because that tiny ball
had fallen into hands for whom it was never intended!
That was enough.
Murat de Villefort had been swift in his movements, but Frank was
equally swift. He sprang upon the man, with the fierceness of a panther.
Then began a sharp and terrible struggle for the possession of the tiny
ball.
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