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Updated: May 5, 2025
"Perhaps," Maillot spoke with sneering emphasis, his look frankly hostile, "perhaps you could have heard us; I 'm ignorant of the degree of acuteness to which your hearing has been developed; but" turning to me "I want to say, Swift, that during the whole time Mr. I think, Burke, I see the imprint of a keyhole on your ear."
"I want you to write down a plain, straightforward declaration that Royal Maillot is innocent, and then follow it with the reasons why you know him to be innocent for you have those reasons. Doubtless it will include an exposure of the guilty; very well, this is the time for such a disclosure." The amazing effrontery of the proposal made me gasp.
Serge was careless and happy, treating the apprehensions of those surrounding him with perfect indifference. He did not think his wife was ill a little tired perhaps, or it might be change of climate, nothing serious. He had quite fallen into his old ways, spending every night at the club, and a part of the day in a little house in the Avenue Maillot, near the Bois de Boulogne.
"Take time, Maillot," I admonished, "but choose wisely." He lifted his head with a little jerk. "Give me a moment to think. I must decide, and decide irrevocably, whether to become as dumb as a graven image, or else take you into my confidence."
Before I was through he was grinning at me in a very superior and knowing way. "Nice, bright sleuth, you," commented he, mockingly; "can't you see through a grindstone when there's a hole in it? I shrugged my shoulders; the idea was by no means novel. But it did not make matters any clearer. "It must have been the ruby which he showed Maillot," I insisted.
If he gives me any more of his cheek, I 'll take his club from him and hand him a wallop over the head with it dashed if I don't." He looked eminently capable of doing it, too. He paused, his look resting upon me with an interrogation. "Are you in authority here?" he bluntly demanded. "I suppose so. Are you Mr. Maillot?" "I am.
I rested my forearms upon the back of one; but the instant the door closed on Stodger and Burke, young Maillot sank with a groan into a chair by the table. "The devil! I'm glad you got rid of that fellow," he muttered. "He wears on one like the very deuce."
Watch Burke." Then the heavy steel door clanged to between us. After the cell door closed upon Royal Maillot I returned at once to the house of tragedy, whose evil genius was promising to play havoc with the lives of so many of the living; and as I approached the bleak, austere old mansion something in its silent and inanimate exterior seemed to repulse my advance up the gravel walk.
One of the two men who had passed the night in the house might have secreted it. Their presence offered the most plausible explanation. Was Maillot the one?
One recommends this Cazaio rather to the spinners of romance: with his morality a trifle buccaneerish on occasion once discreetly palliated, history affords few heroes more instantly taking to the fancy....One casts a hankering eye toward this Cazaio's rumored parentage, his hopeless and life-long adoration of Claire de Puysange, his dealings with d'Argenson and King Louis le Bien-Aime, the obscure and mischievous imbroglios in Spain, and finally his aggrandizement and his flame-lit death, as du Maillot, say, records these happenings: and one finds therein the outline of an impelling hero, and laments that our traffic must be with a stolid and less livelily tinted Bulmer.
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