learned who I am?"

"I know perfectly well who you are," the cripple responded. "Your name is
Mark Fenwick, and you are one of the greatest scoundrels unhung. At
present, you are posing as an American millionaire. Fools may believe
you, but I know better. The point is, do you happen to know who I am?"

"Yes, I know who you are," Fenwick said with a sardonic smile. "You elect
to call yourself Mr. Bates, or some such name, and you pretend to be a
recluse who gives himself over to literary pursuits. As a matter of
fact, you are Charles Le Fenu, and your father was, at one time, the
practical owner of the Four Finger Mine."

"We are getting on," Venner whispered. "It may surprise you to hear this,
but I have suspected it for some little time. The so-called absent owner
of these houses is the man sitting opposite Fenwick there. Now do you
begin to see something like daylight before you? I wouldn't have missed
this for worlds."

"We have certainly been lucky," Gurdon replied.

There was no time for further conversation, for the cripple was speaking
again. His voice was still hard and cold, nor did his manner betray the
slightest sign of fear.

"So you have found that out," he said. "You know that I am the son of the
unfortunate Frenchman who was murdered by a rascally Dutchman at your
instigation. You thought that once having discovered the secret of the
mine you could work it to your own advantage. How well you worked it your
left hand testifies."