Not often have the good people of Palermo seen three cabs pass through the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele in such fashion.  The sight made loiterers curious, drove policemen frantic, and caused the drivers of other vehicles to pull to one side and piously bless themselves.

Dubois had evidently offered his cocchiere a lavish bribe for a quick transit through the city, and the Italian was determined to earn it.  Although he had a good start, and his horse was accustomed to negotiating the main thoroughfare at a rapid pace, nevertheless the half-starved animal was not able to maintain a high rate of speed for more than a few minutes.

By the time they reached the Corso Catafini, which carries the chief artery of Palermo out into the country crossing the railway and passing the magnificent convent of San Francisco de Sale the horse was labouring heavily notwithstanding the frantic efforts of the cabman.

It was at this point, when mounting the bridge, that Dubois knew for certain he was followed.  Three hundred yards behind, he saw Talbot whipping an equally unwilling, but better-conditioned steed than that which carried his own fortunes.  At the distance he could not recognize the Englishman, but instinct told him that this impassioned driver was an enemy.

Brett, of course, was not visible, being far in the rear.

“My friend,” said Dubois, standing up in the small carriage and leaning against the driver’s seat, “I offered you twenty francs if you crossed the city quickly.  I will make it forty for another mile at the same pace.  See, I place the money in your pocket.”

“It will kill my horse, signorina.”

“Possibly.  I will buy you another.”

The cocchiere thought that this was a lady of strange manner.  There was an odd timbre in her voice, a note of domination not often associated with the fair sex.  But she had given earnest of her words by a couple of gold pieces, so he murmured a prayer to his favourite saint that the horse might not die until the right moment.

Thus they swirled on, pursued and pursuers, until the villa residences on the outskirts of the town were less in evidence, and fields devoted to the pepper-wort, alternated with groves of olives and limes, formed the prevalent features of the landscape.

Now it became evident that the leading horse could barely stagger another fifty yards, notwithstanding the inhuman efforts of the cocchiere to make the most of the poor brute’s failing energies.  At last the animal stumbled and fell, nearly pulling the driver off his perch.  It was sad, but he had more than earned his price, for Palermo lay far behind.

“My horse is done for, signorina,” cried the cabman.  “It is marvellous that he Corpo di Baccho! It is a man!”

Dubois felt that his feminine trappings were no longer a disguise, only a hindrance.  He had torn off jacket, skirt, hat and wig.  The frightened cabman saw his fare changed now into an athletic young man, attired in shirt and trousers, the latter rolled up to his knees spring from the vehicle and vault over a ditch by the roadside.

Some portion of the discarded clothing lay on the seat of the carriage, but Dubois had thrown the skirt over his arm.

“Here!  Come back!” yelled the Italian.  “What about payment for my dead horse?”

But Dubois paid little heed to him.  He was fumbling with the pocket of the skirt as he ran.  Not until he had withdrawn a revolver from its folds whereupon he at once threw away the garment did the maddening remembrance come to him that he unloaded the weapon prior to the Customs examination, and had forgotten to reinsert the cartridges.

They were in the pocket of his serge coat, the coat which Mademoiselle wore.  She, like a prudent young woman, had been careful to reload the revolver she carried, and which she transferred to her new attire when, at the last moment, Dubois suggested the exchange of clothing as a final safeguard in the most unexpected event of police interference with their landing.

Henri Dubois could not afford to expend his breath in useless curses.  But his eyes scintillated with fiery gleams.  He, the man who took no chances, who foresaw every pitfall and smiled at the devices of outraged law, to compromise his own safety so foolishly!

For an instant he was tempted to fling the weapon away, but he controlled the impulse.

“As it is,” he thought, “this fellow who is pursuing me may not be armed, and I can terrorise him if he comes to close quarters.”

Moreover, this superlative scoundrel could feel tightly fastened round his waist a belt containing diamonds worth over a million sterling.  Such a ceinture was worth fighting for, whilst his pocket-book contained ample funds for all immediate necessities.

If the worst came to the worst he carried a trustworthy clasp knife, and he was an adept in the savate the system of scientific defence by using hands and feet which finds favour with Parisian “sports.”

On the whole, Henri Dubois made for a neighbouring wood in a state of boiling rage at his momentary lapse concerning the revolver, but conscious that he had many a time extricated himself from a worse fix.  A hundred yards in his rear ran Jack Talbot.  The Englishman, notwithstanding his recent imprisonment, was in better condition than Dubois.  He was a good golf player and cricketer, and although in physique and weight he did not differ much from the Frenchman, his muscles were more firmly knit, and his all-round training in athletic exercises gave him considerable advantage.

Thus they neared the wood, neither man running at his top speed.  Both wished to conserve their energies for the approaching struggle.  Talbot could have come up with his quarry sooner, were it not for the paramount consideration that he should not be spent with the race at the supreme moment, whilst Dubois only intended to seek the shelter of the trees before he faced his opponent.  The Frenchman did not want witnesses.

Neither was aware that Brett and the Italian pilot had by this time reached the place where the two leading carriages were halted in the roadway.  Without wasting a moment the barrister leapt the intervening ditch and followed the runners across the field, whilst behind him, eagerly anxious to see the end of this mysterious chase, came the sailor.

On the edge of the wood Dubois halted and turned to face his pursuer.  Instantly he recognized Talbot, and for the first time in his career a spasm of fear struck cold upon the Frenchman’s heart.  In the young Englishman he recognized the only man who had cause to hate him with an implacable animosity.

But the unscrupulous adventurer quickly recovered his nerve.

“So it is you who follow me so closely,” he cried.  “Go back, my friend.  This time I will not tie you on a bed.  You are becoming dangerous.  Go back, I tell you!”

And with these words he levelled the revolver at Talbot’s breast, for the latter was now within fifty yards of him.  But Jack was animated with the mad elation of a successful chase, and governed by the fierce resolve that his betrayer should not escape him.  For an instant he stopped.  It was only to pick up a huge stone.  Then he ran on again, and, careless whether Dubois fired or not, he flung the missile at him.

The Frenchman barely succeeded in dodging, as it passed unpleasantly close to his head.  He instantly understood that here was a man who could not be deterred by idle threats.  To attempt to keep him at arm’s length by pointing an empty pistol at him would merely court disaster.

So now, with an imprecation of genuine rage, he flung the weapon at Talbot, who, in his turn, was so surprised by the action that he did not get out of the way in time.  It struck him fair in the chest and staggered him for a moment, whereupon Dubois ran off again into the interior of the wood.

But Talbot’s pause was only a matter of seconds.  He did not trouble to pick up another stone.  He felt with a species of mad joy that his enemy was unarmed that he could throttle him with his hands, and wreak upon him that personal and physical vengeance which is dearer to outraged humanity than any wounds inflicted by other means.

Dubois reached a small glade among the trees before he comprehended that his ruthless adversary was still close at his heels.  He stopped for the last time, resolved now to have done with this irritating business, once and for all.  Talbot too halted, about ten yards from him.  He felt that he had the Frenchman at his mercy, and there were a few things he wished to say to him before they closed in mortal combat.

“This time, Henri Dubois,” he panted, “I am not drugged and strapped helplessly to a bed.  You know why I am here.  I have followed you to avenge the stigma you inflicted on my reputation and at the same time to recover the diamonds which you obtained by subterfuge and murder.”

The Frenchman was quite collected in manner.

“I murdered no one,” he answered.  “I could not help the blundering of other people.  If I am regretfully compelled to kill you to-day, it is your own fault.  I am only acting in self-defence.”

“Self-defence!” came the quick retort.  “Such men as you are a pest.  Like any wild beast you will strive to save your miserable life!  But, thank Heaven, you must depend upon your claws.  Lying and trickery will avail you no further!”

“How can we fight?” demanded the Frenchman calmly.

“Any way you like, you villain.  As man to man if you are able.  If not, as dog to dog, for I am going to try and kill you!”

“But you are probably armed, whereas I am defenceless?  My revolver, as you saw, was not loaded.”

“We are equal in that respect, if in no other,” retorted Talbot.

An evil smile lit up the Frenchman’s pallid face.  He pulled out his knife with a flourish and hissed

“Then die yourself, you fool!”

He advanced upon Jack with a murderous look in his face.  Talbot awaited him, and he, too, smiled.

“You are a liar and a coward to the end!” he cried.  “But if you had twenty knives, Henri Dubois, I will kill you!”

At that instant a cold, clear voice rang out among the trees, close behind the two men.

“Halt!” it cried.

Both men involuntarily paused and turned their eyes to learn whence came this strange interruption.  Brett quietly came a few paces nearer.

He held a revolver, pointed significantly at Dubois’ breast.

“Drop that knife,” he said, with an icy determination in tone and manner that sent a cold shiver through his hearer’s spine.

“Drop it, or, by God, I will shoot you this instant!”

Dubois felt that the game was up.  He flung down the knife and tried even then to laugh.

“Of course,” he sneered, “as I am cornered on all sides I give in.”

Brett still advanced until he reached the spot where the knife lay.  He picked it up, and at the same instant lowered the revolver.  Then he observed, with the easy indifference of one who remarks upon the weather

“Now you can fight, monsieur.  My young friend here is determined to thrash you, and you richly deserve it.  So I will not interfere.  But just one word before you begin.  Two can play at the game of bluff.  This is your own pistol.  It is, as you know, unloaded.”

Dubois’ cry of rage at the trick which had been played on him was smothered by his effort to close with Talbot, who immediately flung himself upon him with an impetuosity not to be denied.

Luckily for the Englishman he had clutched Dubois before the latter could attempt any of the expedients of the savate.  Nevertheless the Frenchman sought to defend himself with the frenzy of desperation.

The fight, while it lasted, was fast and furious.

The two men rolled over and over each other on the ground one striving to choke the life out of his opponent, the other seeking to rend with teeth and nails.

This combat of catamounts could not last long.

From the writhing convulsive bodies, locked together in a deadly struggle, suddenly there came a sharp snap.  The Frenchman’s right arm was broken near the wrist.

Then Talbot proceeded to wreak his vengeance on him.  Unquestionably he would have strangled the man had not Brett interfered, for with his left hand he clutched Dubois’ throat, whilst with the right he endeavoured to demolish his features.  But the barrister, assisted by the Italian pilot whose after-life was cheered by his ability to relate the details of this Homeric fight pulled the young man from off his insensible foe.

Talbot regained his feet.  Panting with exertion, he glared down at the prostrate form, but Brett, being practical-minded, knelt by the Frenchman’s side, tore open his shirt, and unfastened the precious belt.

“At last!” he murmured.

Peering into one of the pockets, which by the way of its bulging he thought would contain the “Imperial diamond,” he looked up at Talbot with the words

“Now, Jack, we are even with him.”

It was the first time he had addressed Talbot by his familiar and Christian name.  The very sound brought back the other man to a conscious state of his surroundings, and in the same instant a great weakness came over him, for the terrible exertions of the past few minutes had utterly exhausted him.

“I cannot even thank you, for I am done up.  But I owe it all to you, old man.  If it had not been for you we should never have found him.”

Brett’s grave face wrinkled in a kindly smile.

“I think,” he said, “we are even on that score.  If you had not followed this rascal he might have escaped us at the finish, and my pride would never have recovered from the shock.  However, go and sit down for a minute or two and you will soon pull yourself together again.  I wish to goodness we had some brandy.  A drop would do you good, and our prostrate friend here would be none the worse for a reviver.”

The Italian pilot caught the word “brandy.”  Being a sailor he was equal to all emergencies.  He produced a small flask with a magnificent air.

“Behold!” he declared.  “It is the best.  It is contraband!”

Brett forced his companion to swallow some of the liquor; then he gently raised Dubois’ head and managed to pour a few drops into his mouth.

The Frenchman regained consciousness.  Awakening with a start to the realities of existence, he endeavoured to rise, but sank back with a groan, for he had striven to support himself on his broken arm.

“Be good enough to remain quite still, M. Dubois,” said Brett soothingly.  “You have reached the end of your rope, and we do not even need to tie you.”

With the aid of some handkerchiefs and a couple of saplings cut by the Italian he managed roughly to bind the fractured limb.  Then he assisted Dubois to his feet.

“Come,” he said, “we are regretfully compelled to bring you back to town, but we will endeavour to make the journey as comfortable as possible for you.  In any event, the horses will certainly not travel so fast.”

In the roadway they found the carriages where they had left them, whilst three wondering cocchieri were exchanging opinions as to the mad behaviour of the foreigners.

Brett and the Frenchman entered one vehicle, Talbot and the Italian pilot the other.

“But, gentlemen,” moaned the disconsolate cabman who had headed the procession from Palermo, “who will pay me for my dead horse?”

“I know not,” replied Brett.  “In any event you had better occupy the vacant seat and drive those two gentlemen to the city, where you can secure the means of bringing back your carriage.”

In this guise the party returned to Palermo, evoking much wonderment all the way through the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele, whence no less than six outraged policemen followed them to the Hotel de France to obtain their names and addresses.