Edgar Wallace

“ Smith did not speak for a long time. He had enough to think upon. In his early days at Oxford he had posed as an authority on the Renaissance, and knew the history of the Borgias backward. In his old rooms, before things smashed to pieces and the lanes of life so violently turned, he had had a copy of a cartoon reputedly by Da Vinci, inscribed 'Cæsar Borgia de France, Duke of Valentinois, Count of Diois and Issaudun, Pontifical Vicar of Imola and Forli.' And now he recalled the same bold, womanish face in the man who stood looking down at him, enjoying the sensation he had caused. ”

“ He rose quickly and began to pace the room. “You shall see all my cards in time,” he continued. “I need such a man as you—a man without heart or mercy. Some day I will tell you a great secret.”
“I will tell you your secret now,” said Smith speaking slowly, and pointed to the coat of arms above the mantelpiece. “Why are those arms in this house?” he asked. “Why is this cipher and these fleur-de-lis embroidered in your carpet, Mr. Valentine. I don't know whether you are a madman, or whether you're sane,” Smith spoke in that slow drawl of his. ”

“ But I think I've got you down fine.”
“What are the arms?” asked Valentine.
“They are the arms of Cæsar Borgia,” replied the other. “A bull on a gold ground is the family arms of the Borgias; the C. in the carpet was the Borgias' cipher.”
Valentine had stopped his pacing and stood now, his head bent forward, his narrowed eyes fixed on Smith. “I am neither a madman nor a vainglorious fool,” he said quietly. “It is true I am the last in the direct line of that illustrious man, Cæsar Borgia, Duke of the Valentincois.” ”