But it was fated that Nick Carter was not to proceed at once to the tower of the castle.

The distance from where he turned again toward the front of the building, to that part of it which might properly be called the tower, was some hundreds of feet, and he had gone not more than half the distance when, just as he was passing a door, it was opened suddenly and a man stepped out upon the corridor, confronting him.

It would be difficult to determine which of the two was the more greatly surprised by the encounter, but it was certainly the detective who recovered from it first.

The man who confronted him paused in amazement. Then, when he perceived Nick was a stranger, he opened his mouth to cry out something. But on that instant Nick leaped forward. As he did so, the man started backward, with the cry still unuttered.

His step backward avoided the blow he would have received, but not all the consequences of it, for the detective, perceiving in time that his hand would fall short of reaching the fellow, altered his intention and turned his onslaught into a rush, so that his two hands fell upon the man’s chest, and he was thrown backward into the room where the detective followed him with a bound.

He closed the door almost with the same motion with which he had passed through it, and then, with his back[194] against it, calmly drew his revolver while the man was rising from the floor, where he had fallen.

“Who the devil are you?” demanded the man, in French. “Sacre, mon ami, but that is an odd way you have of making your presence known. And why, monsieur, do you make use of the revolver?”

“Merely to convince you of the wisdom of preserving silence,” replied Nick, smiling grimly.

“Silence?” The Frenchman chuckled audibly. “My dear sir, one might yell his lungs loose here, and not be heard inside an adjoining room. These walls were made to withstand sieges. And, besides, if I may venture to inquire, wherefore should I offer to cry out? Eh?”

The Frenchman had stepped back, and Nick saw that he was evidently a character; and he realized, moreover, that the man had not the least idea that he himself was an intruder in the castle. Then, as if to confirm him in that opinion, the man added:

“Ha! I understand. I comprehend monsieur’s tendencies—his wish. It is to fight; no?”

The detective could not avoid a smile, but he made no other reply.

“Ha! I have guessed it,” continued the Frenchman, rubbing his hands together ecstatically. “It is to fight with me that monsieur comes here at this hour. Monsieur is a guest of Count Jean. Perhaps monsieur came to the château on board the yacht with the count. Is it not so? Yes? And the count has told monsieur about Antoine Lafetre. No? It is so; no? Yes? And monsieur has not the belief that Antoine is the greatest fencing-master[195] of the age. Ha! Monsieur has come to witness a proof of it, perhaps. Believe me, monsieur shall be gratified. Monsieur shall be convinced. Yes!”

Nick Carter permitted him to run on without interruption, for the fellow’s prattle told him at once many things he desired to know, the most important of which was the fact that Count Jean de Cadillac had in reality arrived at the château in the Shadow and was now inside the castle.

It told him, also, that here before him was a conceited Frenchman, by profession a fencing-master, who considered himself the “greatest that ever was.” A person who had not an idea beyond the horizon of his own egotism; but, above all, a person who, if Nick could win his confidence, would impart all the information he possessed.

And so, without hesitation, he at once assumed the part for which the French fencing-master cast him. He shrugged his own shoulders in true French fashion, and having returned the revolver to the side pocket of his coat, he raised his eyes, turned out the palms of his hands and replied:

“Yes. I have heard that you, Monsieur Antoine, have some idea of fence, but—parbleu!—it is nothing to what I can do. Monsieur Antoine has not the requisite strength of the wrist; not the quickness of the eye; not the nimbleness of the feet upon the floor; not the touch, the curve, the twist, the reach with the arm; not the——”

“So? Is it so? Does the monsieur believe what he says to be true? Ha! It is a relish that you have brought to me, monsieur. I will instruct you in the fence; no?[196] Yes! You shall see. Will the monsieur be kind enough to step this way?”

This room, like the other which Nick had seen, was large. It was evidently the home of the fencing-master, for the walls were covered with foils, swords, rapiers, broadswords, battle-axes, staves, dueling-pistols, masks, gauntlets, chest-shields, shoulder-pads—in short, everything was there which belonged to the arts of offense and defense with the blade.

At one end of the room was a raised section, which extended, perhaps, an inch above the surface of the floor, and this was filled with fine, white sand; and it was toward this spot that the Frenchman conducted the detective.

“Look,” said the fencing-master, pointing toward some hooks against the wall. “If monsieur will divest himself of his coat; so. Ah! It is a pleasure, a relish that monsieur has brought to me. I will produce my most superb foils—&m............