Who was this fourth figure, who
knew my name and spoke such colloquial English? I raised my candle as
high as possible and scanned him. Then I stood transfixed.
"Van Blarcom!" I gasped. "And in a uniform, by all that's holy!"
He grinned.
"No. You haven't got that quite right," he told me. "What's the use
keeping up the game now that we're here, all friends together? My name
isn't Van Blarcom. It's Franz von Blenheim, Mr. Bayne."
CHAPTER XX
INTRODUCING HERR FRANZ VON BLENHEIM
The words of Franz von Blenheim seemed to fill the hall and reecho
from the walls and arches, deafening me, leaving me stunned as if by
an earthquake or by a flash of lightning from clear skies. Yet I never
though of doubting them. Comatose as my state was, slowly as my brain
was working, I recognized vaguely how many features of the mystery, both
past and present, these words explained.
It was odd, but never once had it occurred to me that Van Blarcom might
be a German. He himself, I began to realize, had taken care of that.
With considerable acumen he had filled every one of our brief interviews
with vigorous denunciations of somebody else, dark hints as to intrigues
that surrounded me and might enmesh me, and solemn warnings and prudent
counsels, which had brilliantly served his turn.
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