“It’s ten to one I am making a fool of myself,” he said. “I am an American, and there is no reason why the Black Brothers should select me for a victim. I am not dangerous enough for them to feel that my life must come to an end.”
An old man, with spectacles set astride his nose, was in the front room. He bowed to Frank, saying softly:
“Monsieur, the gentleman waits for you in that room.”
He pointed to a narrow door that was standing open. It was plain now that Frank had not been deceived in following the man who had spoken to him before the Café de la Paix. That man had known he would follow, and the old man in the shop had expected him to enter.
Wondering what would happen next, Frank passed through the narrow door. The man he had followed was standing in the middle of the small room, beside a table, on which stood a lighted lamp. He bowed gravely as Merriwell appeared. He had a thin, sharp face, and a pair of unpleasant eyes.
Frank Merriwell looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, and then quietly said:
He did not offer to take the little ball from his pocket and pass it to the man, for the signal was not complete. They stood there in silence, looking at each other, the young American cool and self-possessed, the Frenchman stern-faced and frowning. Frank fancied that the man showed disappointment.
Once more the stranger repeated the words:
Frank was tempted to turn his back, and walk out of the place without another word. He had vowed to hold fast to the little ball till the proper signal was given, and something seemed to tell him that this unknown man who sought possession of it had no right to claim it.
“Justice should not call in vain to you, for you have what may give justice to one who is in sore need of it. Come, monsieur, I am waiting.”
“There is another who is waiting in an iron cage. It seems that the ways of justice are so slow that his short life may be spent in waiting.”
“He has many enemies,” said Frank evasively.
“But you—you have been trusted as a friend.”
“Why should I be trusted? I am an American. He is nothing to me.”
“Why should he be aught to me? He is not a countryman of mine. If France sees fit to let him rot in his prison cage, what is it to me? It is her disgrace.”