een you and Bernadine. It has been against your
country and your country's welfare that most of his efforts have been
directed, which perhaps accounts for the equanimity with which I have
been contented to remain a looker-on. It is apparent, my dear Baron,
that in most of your encounters the honors have remained with you.
Yet, as it has chanced, never once has Bernadine been struck a real and
crushing blow. The time has come when this and more must happen. It is
no longer a matter of polite exchanges. It is a duel a outrance."

"You mean," Peter began--

"I mean that Bernadine must die," Sogrange declared.

There was a brief silence. Outside, the early morning street noises were
increasing in volume as the great army of workers, streaming towards the
heart of the city from a hundred suburbs, passed on to their tasks.
A streak of sunshine had found its way into the room, lay across the
carpet and touched Sogrange's still, waxen features. Peter glanced
half fearfully at his friend and visitor. He himself was no coward, no
shrinker from the great issues. He, too, had dealt in life and death.
Yet there was something in the deliberate preciseness of Sogrange's
words, as he sat there only a few feet away, unspeakably thrilling.
It was like a death sentence pronounced in all solemnity upon some
shivering criminal. There was something inevitable and tragical about
the whole affair. A pronouncement had been made from which there was no
appeal--Bernadine was to die!

"Isn't this a little exceeding the usual exercise of our powers?" Peter
asked, slowly.

"No such occasion as this has ever yet arisen," Sogrange reminded him.
"Bernadine has fled to this country with barely an hour to spare. His
offense is extraditable by a law of the last century which has never
been repealed. He is guilty of treason against the Republic of France.
Yet they do not want him back, they do not want a trial. I have papers
upon my person which, if I took them into an English court, would
procure for me a warrant for Bernadine's arrest. It is not this we
desire. Bernadine must die. No fate could be too terrible for a man who
has striven to corrupt the soul of a nation. It is not war, this. It
is not honest conspiracy. Is it war, I ask you, to seek to poison the
drinking water of an enemy, to send stalking into their midst some
loathsome disease? Such things belong to the ages of barbarity.
Bernadine has striven to revive them and Bernadine shall die.