H. Bedford-Jones

“ He beat Bigarot's prediction by a dozen hours, reaching Hué late that night. The robbery was no mere theft of treasure; it threatened the entire French administration. The inviolate palace had been invaded. The sacred treasures of dead generations had been looted.
No sooner had Davignan's train pulled in than the resident rushed him across town to the Comat Palace, to meet with the royal council of mandarins—an infuriated array of gentlemen. On the way the resident talked volubly. Davignan smiled and listened, read Bigarot's note, and smiled again. Only as he left the automobile did he speak. ”

“ The criminals will be dead. What harm is done?"
"Dead?" repeated the distracted resident. "But Bigarot took no soldiers!"
"He needs none." However, M. Davignan lost his cherubic smile, and thought a space. A sigh oozed slowly from his bosom. "Alas! I fear that I must myself go into the hills, dear monsieur! I pray you, find me a litter, bearers, guides, and a dozen soldiers."
"What the devil?" stammered the resident. "And why?"
"Because Bigarot seems to have forgotten how important was the forged evidence against M. Kent. I am afraid that poor Bigarot will get into hot water." ”