I understand what he would like to say: it's an alcoholic, almost a drunkard, whom we have before us.

For some time that individual considers us in silence. His eyes go from one to the other, and pass us successively in review. We await his good pleasure patiently.

"They told me there are six of you," he says at last, in French but with a strong English accent, speaking in a stem but raucous voice. "I can only see five. Why?"

"One of us is ill," replied Dr. Chatonnay, "ill from the sufferings your men inflicted on him."

There is a fresh interval of silence, then our interlocutor gets up suddenly and asks ex abrupto: "What did you come to my country for?"

The question is so unexpected that in spite of the gravity of the situation we all want to laugh. Well If we are in his country, it is in spite of ourselves.

He goes on, with a menacing look. "To spy, no doubt."

"Excuse me, Sir," ... says M. Barsac.

But the other interrupts him. Seized by a sudden anger, he crashes his fist on the table and roars in a voice of thunder: "They call me Master."

M. Barsac then becomes superb. An orator always and even now, he draws himself up, places his left hand on his heart, and sweeps the air with a wide movement of his right ann: "Since seventeen hundred and eighty-nine," he declares emphatically, "the French have never had a master."

Anywhere else it would evoke laughter, I admit, this somewhat melodramatic declaration of M. Barsac, but in the present circumstances, in the teeth of tins sort of wild beast, I assure you it is not without nobility. It shows that we shall never consent to humble ourselves before this drunken adventurer. We all applaud the speaker, down to M. Poncin; earned away with his enthusiasm, he cries: "Take away a man's independence, and you take his freedom!"

Gallant M. Poncin! Certainly he means well.

On hearing this indisputable statement, Harry Killer shrugs his shoulders. Then he again starts staring at us in turn, as though he had never seen us before. His eyes pass from one to another with amazing speed. He stops at last with M. Barsac, at whom he darts a most terrible look. M. Barsac does not flinch. My congratulations. That son of the Midi, he's not only voluble, he has courage and dignity too. The chief of our Mission is rising in my esteem by leaps and bounds.

Harry Killer succeeds in controlling himself, which cannot happen every day, then with a calmness as unexpected as his anger was sudden, he says: "Do you speak English?"

"Yes," M. Barsac replies.

"And your companions."

"Just as well."

"Good," Harry Killer agrees; then in the same half drunken voice he repeats his previous question in English: "What have you come here for?"

The answer is obvious.

"Its for us to ask you that question," M. Barsac replies, "and to demand what right you've got to keep us here by force."

"Because I've got you," snaps Harrv Killer his fury suddenly going beyond all bounds. "While I'm alive, nobody comes near my empire!"

His empire? ...