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Updated: May 18, 2025
"The father slew the mother," muttered Gabriel, between his clenched teeth; "and to me, you have wellnigh supplied her place. Strike, if need be, in her name! If you are driven to want the arm of Pierre Guillot, seek news of him at the Cafe Dufour, Rue S , Boulevard du Temple. Be calm now; I hear your husband's step." A few days more, and Gabriel is gone!
Do you know anything of the object of his coming?" "Nothing." "Anything of his plans?" "Nothing." "You know where he is staying?" "Naturally," Dory answered. "He has taken a second-floor flat in Crayshaw Mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue. As usual, he is above all petty artifices. He has taken it under the name of Monsieur Guillot."
What enterprise is there worthy of a man like Guillot, in which he could engage himself here in London between now and midnight? Any ordinary theft is beneath him. The purloining of the Crown jewels, perhaps, he might consider, but I don't think that anything less in the way of robbery would bring him here. He has his code and he is as vain as a peacock.
He understood at such moments the value of silence. "We speak together," Dory continued softly, "as men who understand one another. Guillot is the one criminal in Europe whom we all fear; not I alone, mind you it is the same in Berlin, in Petersburg, in Vienna. He has never been caught. It is my honest belief that he never will be caught.
He did not use, he said, to wipe his nose with a herring! and on that day he was going to cook a dinner fit for the Pope after Lent, or even for the Reverend Father De Berey himself, who was the truest gourmet and the best trencherman in New France. Maitre Guillot honored his master, but in his secret soul he did not think his taste quite worthy of his cook!
Farther away, in the windows of the severe looking, barrack-like Guillot establishment, biscuits in gilt wrappers and fancy cakes on glass stands were tastefully set out. All the shops were now open; and workmen in white blouses, with tools under their arms, were hurrying along the road. Claude had not yet got down from the bench.
She retreated down the stairs, dumb, her knees shaking with fear. Guillot entered the room, closing the door behind him. Even as he bowed to that dark figure standing in the corner, his left hand shot forward the bolt. "Monsieur," he said "What is the meaning of this?" the visitor interrupted, haughtily. "I am expecting Mademoiselle Louise.
"Without a doubt," Peter replied. "It is beyond all measure charming of you," Guillot declared, "but let me ask you a question. Is it peace or war?" "It is what you choose to make it," Peter answered. The man threw out his hands. There was the shadow of a frown upon his pale forehead. It was a matter for protest, this. "Why do you come?" he demanded. "What have we in common?
There is my challenge. Voila. Take it up if you will. At midnight you shall hear me laugh. I have the honor to wish you good-night!" Peter opened the door with his own hands. "This is excellent," he declared. "You are now, indeed, the Monsieur Guillot of old. Almost you persuade me to take up your challenge." Guillot laughed derisively. "As you please!" he exclaimed. "By midnight tonight!"
"Without a doubt," Peter answered. "I must certainly call upon Monsieur Guillot." Peter wasted no time in paying his promised visit. That same afternoon he rang the bell at the flat in Crayshaw Mansions. A typical French butler showed him into the room where the great man sat. Monsieur Guillot, slight, elegant, preeminently a dandy, was lounging upon a sofa, being manicured by a young lady.
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