letter in my hand; I had even talked with him--and as I remembered
the fascination, the finish, the distinguished culture of M. Félix
Armand, I understood something of the reason of his extraordinary
reputation.

"There can be no two opinions about him," said Godfrey, reaching out
his hand for the letter and sinking back in his chair to contemplate
it. "Crochard is one of the greatest criminals who ever lived, full
of imagination and resource, and with a sense of humour most acute. I
have followed his career for years--it was this fact that gave me my
first clue. He killed a man once before, just as he killed this last
one. The man had betrayed him to the police. He was never betrayed
again."

"What a fiend he must be!" I said, with a shudder.

But Godfrey shook his head quickly.

"Don't get that idea of him," he protested earnestly. "Up to the time
of his arrival in New York, he had never killed any man except that
traitor. Him he had a certain right to kill--according to thieves'
ethics, anyway. His own life has been in peril scores of times, but
he has never killed a man to save himself. Put that down to his
credit."

"But Drouet and Vantine," I objected.

"An accident for which he was in no way responsible," said Godfrey
promptly.