The scene shifts again—to the foot of the Simplon, on the Swiss side.

In one of the dreary rooms of the dreary little inn at Brieg, Mr. Bintrey and Ma?tre Voigt sat together at a professional council of two.  Mr. Bintrey was searching in his despatch-box.  Ma?tre Voigt was looking towards a closed door, painted brown to imitate mahogany, and communicating with an inner room.

“Isn’t it time he was here?” asked the notary, shifting his position, and glancing at a second door at the other end of the room, painted yellow to imitate deal.

“He is here,” answered Bintrey, after listening for a moment.

The yellow door was opened by a waiter, and Obenreizer walked in.

After greeting Ma?tre Voigt with a cordiality which appeared to cause the notary no little embarrassment, Obenreizer bowed with grave and distant politeness to Bintrey.  “For what reason have I been brought from Neuchatel to the foot of the mountain?” he inquired, taking the seat which the English lawyer had indicated to him.

“You shall be quite satisfied on that head before our interview is over,” returned Bintrey.  “For the present, permit me to suggest proceeding at once to business.  There has been a correspondence, Mr. Obenreizer, between you and your niece.  I am here to represent your niece.”

“In other words, you, a lawyer, are here to represent an infraction of the law.”

“Admirably put!” said Bintrey.  “If all the people I have to deal with were only like you, what an easy profession mine would be!  I am here to represent an infraction of the law—that is your point of view.  I am here to make a compromise between you and your niece—that is my point of view.”

“There must be two parties to a compromise,” rejoined Obenreizer.  “I decline, in this case, to be one of them.  The law gives me authority to control my niece’s actions, until she comes of age.  She is not yet of age; and I claim my authority.”

At this point Ma?tre attempted to speak.  Bintrey silenced him with a compassionate indulgence of tone and manner, as if he was silencing a favourite child.

“No, my worthy friend, not a word.  Don’t excite yourself unnecessarily; leave it to me.”  He turned, and addressed himself again to Obenreizer.  “I can think of nothing comparable to you, Mr. Obenreizer, but granite—and even that wears out in course of time.  In the interests of peace and quietness—for the sake of your own dignity—relax a little.  If you will only delegate your authority to another person whom I know of, that person may be trusted never to lose sight of your niece, night or day!”

“You are wasting your time and mine,” returned Obenreizer.  “If my niece is not rendered up to my authority within one week from this day, I invoke the law.  If you resist the law, I take her by force.”

He rose to his feet as he said the last word.  Ma?tre Voigt looked round again towards the brown door which led into the inner room.

“Have some pity on the poor girl,” pleaded Bintrey.  “Remember how lately she lost her lover by a dreadful death!  Will nothing move you?”

“Nothing.”

Bintrey, in his turn, rose to his feet, and looked at Ma?tre Voigt.  Ma?tre Voigt’s hand, resting on the table, began to tremble.  Ma?tre Voigt’s eyes remained fixed, as if by irresistible fascination, on the brown door.  Obenreizer, suspiciously observing him, looked that way too.

“There is somebody listening in there!” he exclaimed, with a sharp backward glance at Bintrey.

“There are two people listening,” answered Bintrey.

“Who are they?”

“You shall see.”

With this answer, he raised his voice and spoke the next words—the two common words which are on everybody’s lips, at every hour of the day: “Come in!”

The brown door opened.  Supported on Marguerite’s arm—his sun-burnt colour gone, his right arm bandaged and clung over his breast—Vendale stood before the murderer, a man risen from the dead.

In the moment of silence that followed, the singing of a caged bird in the court-yard outside was the one sound stirring in the room.  Ma?tre Voigt touched Bintrey, and pointed to Obenreizer.  “Look at him!” said the notary, in a whisper.

The shock had paralysed every movement in the villain’s body, but the movement of the blood.  His face was like the face of a corpse.  The one vestige of colour left in it was a livid purple streak which marked the course of the scar where his victim had wounded him on the cheek and neck.  Speechless, breathless, motionless alike in eye and limb, it seemed as if, at the sight of Vendale, the death to which he had doomed Vendale had struck him where he stood.

“Somebody ought to speak to him,” said Ma?tre Voigt.  “Shall I?”

Even at that moment Bintrey persisted in silencing the notary, and in keeping the lead in the proceedings to himself.  Checking Ma?tre Voigt by a gesture, he dismissed Marguerite and Vendale in these words:—“The object of your appearance here is answered,” he said.  “If you will withdraw for the present, it may help Mr. Obenreizer to recover himself.”

It did help him.  As the two passed through the door and closed it behind them, he drew a deep breath of relief.  He looked round him for the chair from which he had risen, and dropped into it.

“Give him time!” pleaded Ma?tre Voigt.

“No,” said Bintrey.  “I don’t know what use he may make of it if I do.”  He turned once more to Obenreizer, and went on.  “I owe it to myself,” he said—“I don’t admit, mind, that I owe it to you—to account for my appearance in these proceedings, and to state what has been done under my advice, and on my sole responsibility.  Can you listen to me?”

“I can listen to you.”

“Recall the time when you started for Switzerland with Mr. Vendale,” Bintrey begin.  “You had not left England four-and-twenty hours before your niece committed an act of imprudence which not even your penetration could foresee.  She followed her promised husband on his journey, without asking anybody’s advice or permission, and without any better companion to protect her than a Cellarman in Mr. Vendale’s employment.”

“Why did she follow me on the journey? and how came the Cellarman to be the person who accompanied her?”

“She followed you on the journey,” answered Bintrey, “because she suspected there had been some serious collision between you and Mr. Vendale, which had been kept secret from her; and because she rightly believed you to be capable of serving your interests, or of satisfying your enmity, at the price of a crime.  As for the Cellarman, he was one, among the other people in Mr. Vendale’s establishment, to whom she had applied (the moment your back was turned) to know if anything had happened between their master and you.  The Cellarman alone had something to tell her.  A senseless superstition, and a common accident which had happened to his master, in his master’s cellar, had connected Mr. Vendale in this man’s mind with the idea of danger by murder.  Your niece surprised him into a confession, which aggravated tenfold the terrors that possessed her.  Aroused to a sense of the mischief he had done, the man, of his own accord, made the one atonement in his power.  ‘If my master is in danger, miss,’ he said, ‘it’s my duty to follow him, too; and it’s more than my duty to take care of you.’  The two set forth together—and, for once, a superstition has had its use.  It decided your niece on taking the journey; and it led the way to saving a man’s life.  Do you understand me, so far?”

“I understand you, so far.”

“My first knowledge of the crime that you had committed,” pursued Bintrey, “came to me in the form of a letter from your niece.  All you need know is that her love and her courage recovered the body of your victim, and aided the after-efforts which brought him back to life.  While he lay helpless at Brieg, under her care, she wrote to me to come out to him.  Before starting, I informed Madame Dor that I knew Miss Obenreizer to be safe, and knew where she was.  Madame Dor informed me, in return, that a letter had come for your niece, which she knew to be in your handwriting.  I took possession of it, and arranged for the forwarding of any other letters which might follow.  Arrived at Brieg, I found Mr. Vendale out of danger, and at once devoted myself to hastening the day of reckoning with you.  Defresnier and Company turned you off on suspicion; acting on information privately supplied by me.  Having stripped you of your false character, the next thing to do was to strip you of your authority over your niece.  To reach this end, I not only had no scruple in digging the pitfall under your feet in the dark—I felt a certain professional pleasure in fighting you with your own weapons.  By my advice the truth has been carefully concealed from you up to this day.  By my advice the trap into which you have walked was set for you (you know why, now, as well as I do) in this place.  There was but one certain way of shaking the devilish self-control which has hitherto made you a formidable man.  That way has been tried, and (look at me as you may) that way has succeeded.  The last thing that remains to be done,” concluded Bintrey, producing two little slips of manuscript from his despatch-box, “is to set your niece free.  You have attempted murder,............