a fit of insane rage and hid the body in the closet in his library until he would have time to dispose of it. Dalfonzo in some way learned of this, or suspected it, and as he already had the formula in his possession, decided that his safest plan would be to murder Berjet before he could communicate with French Secret Service agents operating in this country, who were about to consummate the purchase of the secret. Eh, bien! the murder was committed, and but for one little slip, one tiny slip—Ha; ha! It is amusing, is it not, Monsieur?"
"Very!" rejoined Deweese sarcastically. "I think, however, that I have begun to get a glimmer of what you erroneously conceive to be the truth, and that is that Dalfonzo and the mysterious Thing are identical."
"Patience, Monsieur, patience," cried Peret. "The glimmer of light that you see is a will-o'-the wisp. Dalfonzo is a man; the Thing is—the Thing. The murders were instigated by Dalfonzo, but were committed by the invisible terror."
Deweese, as had many a man before him, began to wonder if he had to deal with an imbecile or a man by no means as feeble-minded as he seemed. In his puzzlement he stared at Peret for a moment, with mouth agape, then he leaned forward in his chair until less than two feet separated his corpselike face from Peret's.
"And what the devil is the Whispering Thing?" he asked sharply.
"All in good time," came the amiable reply. "Let us first consider the little slip that upset Dalfonzo's apple cart."
"Well, let us consider the little slip then," said Deweese, relaxing in his chair. "Where did our diplomatic freelance slip?"
"Why, when he tried to murder me in the same way that he did that poor Berjet," quietly responded Peret.
The artist half rose from his chair and stared at the detective with astonishment written on his face.
"Do you mean to say that you have been attacked by the Whispering Thing?" he demanded.
"Just that, Monsieur. I was attacked by the whispering phantom in my rooms last night after I left the scene of the attack on you. You can realize, therefore, that I can appreciate all that you have gone through. It is true that my experience was, in some respects, not as terrible as your own, because I escaped the Thing before it could do me bodily harm. But I never expect entirely to recover from the fright it gave me. Mon dieu, what a monster this Dalfonzo is!"
"It was at his instigation that the Thing attacked you?" questioned Deweese.
"Who else?" asked Peret.
"Well," cried Deweese, impatiently, "why do you beat around the bush so much? Be definite. What the devil is the Whispering Thing? And who, exactly, is the man you call Dalfonzo?"
Peret lifted his eyes and gazed steadily at the artist.
"I will answer your second question first, Monsieur," he replied, with exasperating slowness. "My answer will explain why I have been beating around the bush, as you call it."
He leaned slightly forward, his right hand in his coat pocket, his eyes smiling, the muscles around his mouth tense.
"Count Vincent di Dalfonzo," he said, "is the man who at the present time calls himself Albert Deweese—Don't move, Monsieur! The revolver in my coat pocket is centered on your heart!"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MYSTERY IS SOLVED.
IF PERET expected to catch Deweese off his guard, he was sadly disappointed. The artist met his gaze squarely, and without any apparent emotion.
Flicking the ashes from his cold cigarette, he applied a lighted match to it and tossed the charred splinter upon the floor. The corpselike look of his face became a little accentuated, perhaps, and there was a slight narrowing of the eyes that had not been apparent before; but, except for that, there was no change in his manner or appearance,
For a moment neither of the men spoke. Their eyes clashed and held. The stillness became tense, electric, as they contemplated each other through the haze of smoke that curled from the ends of their cigarettes. Finally:
"You are quite mad, I think," remarked Deweese, unmoved. "Where the deuce did you ever get the idea that I was Dalfonzo?"
Peret was unable to conceal his admiration.
"You are a great actor, Monsieur, and a brave man," he declared in a tone that left no doubt of his sincerity. "I told part of my story to test you—a sort of indirect third degree—but so far not a muscle of your face has moved. What a pity it is you are such a damned scoundrel!"
Deweese laughed shortly.
"It is always safe to insult a man when you have him covered," he observed composedly. "Nevertheless, pray continue. You interest me exceedingly, and cause me no annoyance. Your wild theories brand you a fool and an ass, and, strangely enough, it always gives me pleasure to hear an ass bray. Proceed, my dear chap."
"There are many others whose opinion of me is similar to your own," said Peret blandly; "but the fool is he who holds his enemy in contempt."
Deweese's eyes flashed.
"Well, dear enemy, what makes you think that I am the chap you call Dalfonzo?" he questioned, smiling with his lips.
"You will not admit your identity, then?" countered the detective.
"Certainly I will admit my identity," said Deweese, with a laugh. "I am Albert Deweese, very much at your service. What reason have you for believing me to be the man you call Dalfonzo—a man who, if one is to believe you, seems to be in league with an invisible demon that commits murders for him? The very fact that I almost met my death at the hands of the Whispering Thing is proof that I am not the man you seek. If I had anything to do with the Thing, does it seem reasonable to suppose that I would turn it loose on myself?"
"The attack on you was an accident, Monsieur—a bit of retributive justice, perhaps. Were it not for the fact that you still suffer from the effects of it, I would say that you only got part of what was coming to you. Not a full dose of your own medicine, Monsieur—just a taste of it. Ah, you are clever, my friend, clever as the fiends in hell; but, it appears, not clever enough. Diable, Monsieur, you should have better trained that terrible monster before you turned it loose, eh?"
"You seem to like to talk in riddles," snapped Deweese, "What is the Whispering Thing, anyway? If you know, I shall be obliged if you will tell me."
Very well, my friend,” acquiesced Peret, "I will do so with pleasure. The invisible monster, the terrible, whispering, breathing, fear-inspiring demon is—"
"Well?" demanded Deweese tersely.
"One little bat," concluded Peret—"or rather, two little bats."
Absurd as the detective's statement may have sounded, its effect on the artist was, nevertheless, pronounced. His gaze wavered and his face, if such a thing were possible, became a shade paler. His recovery, however, was almost immediate.
"I do not know what it was that attacked you last night," he sneered. "It may have been and probably was a bat. It is possible that an insect could strike terror in the heart of a delicate little flower like you. But if you think a bat
