Once inside he made without hesitation for the table, picked up the box of cigarettes and thrust it into his pocket.
Once inside he made without hesitation for the table, picked up the box of cigarettes and thrust it into his pocket.
Idly she took up one of the cigarettes, and held it in her fingers. She read the name of the brand, printed upon the paper wrapper, and was aboutto drop it back into the box, when she heard a curious rasping noise outside one of the rear windows. It sounded as though someone were climbing the wall of the house. Instinctively she shrank back and concealed herself behind one of the curtains which hung before the alcove door.
The rasping and scraping continued for some little time, and presently Grace, peering through the space between the curtains, saw a face appear at one of the windows. It was a determined face, heavily bearded, dark, evil looking. Its gleaming eyes swept the room with cautious care, then, evidently satisfied that it was unoccupied, their owner began noiselessly to raise the sash of the window.
It was slow work. Several minutes passed before the man succeeded in raising the sash sufficiently to permit him to crawl into the room. Once inside, he made without hesitation for the table, glanced over its contents, picked up the box of cigarettes and thrust it into his pocket, and then, without paying the least attention to anything else, walked quickly to the door of the room and passed out into the hall.
The girl waited for a moment, then stepped into the light. As she did so, she realized thatshe held in her hand one of the gold-tipped cigarettes she had taken from the box. She quickly thrust it into her pocketbook, and, with sudden decision, left the room and descended the stairs. She had an instinctive feeling that the man who had stolen the cigarettes was in some way connected with the kidnapping of the Stapleton child. She determined to follow him, leaving the interview with Alphonse Valentin to another time.
She left the house, and saw the man going down the Boulevard some fifty feet in advance of her. She walked along after him, pretending to be totally uninterested in her surroundings, while at the same time keeping a sharp watch upon him.
He seemed in somewhat of a hurry, and walked briskly along, looking neither to left nor to right. Grace kept as close to him as she dared, without running the risk of detection. The walk was a long one. When half an hour had passed, the girl saw that they were entering the Champs Élysées. The Seine they had long since crossed by the Pont Neuf. Up the brilliantly lighted avenue they went, toward Arc de Triomphe. At the corner of the Avenue Kleber, the man turned to the left. Grace followed, wondering where thechase would lead next. To her astonishment, the man disappeared suddenly through a gate which formed the servants' entrance of one of the stately houses which fronted on the avenue. She looked up. It was the house of Mr. Stapleton!
ON the day following that upon which she arrived in Paris, Grace Duvall sallied forth, determined to find out two things—first, the position occupied by Alphonse Valentin in the affair of the kidnapping; secondly, the identity of the man who had stolen the box of cigarettes from Valentin's room, and gone with them to the house in the Avenue Kleber. The latter incident seemed trivial enough, at first sight; yet she reasoned that no one would risk arrest on the score of burglary, to steal anything of such trifling value, without an excellent reason.
She had a short conference with Monsieur Lefevre, before she left the house, and told him of the events of the previous night. The Prefect seemed greatly interested.
"Could you identify the man who stole the cigarettes?" he asked.
"Easily. I had a splendid view of his face."
"Then go to Mr. Stapleton's house and take alook at all the servants. You may find him among them."
"I had intended to do so, this morning."
The Prefect smiled. "I do not know what your investigations will lead to, but they seem promising. I have a dozen men working on the case; yet so far they have not made the least progress. Their efforts, however, are directed toward finding the child. They are searching the city with the utmost care. We believe that by discovering the missing boy, we shall also find the persons who committed the crime."
"Have you no one under suspicion?"
"No one. The nurse, Mary Lanahan, is of course being closely watched; also the chauffeur, François. My men report, however, that he gave them the slip for an hour, last night. I have an idea that he may prove to be the one who took the cigarettes."
"Can you imagine any reason for his having done so?"
"I confess, my child, that I cannot. It seems utterly absurd; unless, indeed, there was something else concealed in the box."
"What?"
The Prefect laughed. "I cannot imagine. Butif you can identify the man, we shall no doubt find out. As for the matter of Alphonse Valentin, we have already had him under observation. So far as we can learn, he is merely a chauffeur, out of work, who seems to be somewhat in love with the nurse."
"Then his actions have not been suspicious, during the past week?"
"Not in the least. He has hung around the Stapleton house for several days, asking for news of the Lanahan woman; but that is all. We attribute his actions to a natural anxiety over her illness."
Grace left the house, by no means satisfied with the progress she was making. Her interview with Mary Lanahan, and subsequent visit to the scene of the crime, told her nothing she had not already known. Her greatest disappointment, however, came when she had Mrs. Stapleton bring in François, ostensibly to question him about his part in the affair. She saw at once that he was not the man who had broken into Alphonse Valentin's room on the night before. This man had been heavily bearded and tall. François was smooth shaved and rather short. Mrs. Stapleton assured her that none of her servants resembled in theleast her description of the burglar. She left the house, greatly dissatisfied, after satisfying herself that this was the case.
Her visit to the house of Alphonse Valentin that afternoon was productive of no greater results. The man was out. The woman who opened the door—the same one who had admitted her the previous evening—regarded her with ill-concealed suspicion, and informed her that she had no idea when her lodger would return. Grace left, determined to try again the following day.
Throughout the whole evening she hung about the Stapleton house, hoping again to see the man with the heavy beard who had disappeared within the night before; but he did not put in an appearance. Grace began to feel discouraged. She thought of her lilac bushes, at home, of Aunt Lucy feeding the chickens, of the dogs, the sweet call of the wood robins among the poplar trees on the lawn, and half wished that she had stayed at home and left to Richard the apparently hopeless task of finding the abductors of little Jack Stapleton.
What, after all, could she hope to do, where the entire police force of Paris had failed? Thething was absurd. Monsieur Lefevre had overrated her abilities. She heard the sound of church bells, striking the hour of ten, and decided to go home and forget the whole affair until tomorrow. Tomorrow—the day Richard must arrive! How she longed to be with him! This stupid interruption of their honeymoon seemed peculiarly cruel, now that over a week had elapsed since they had seen each other. She wondered if she would meet him, the next day. Then she thought of her changed appearance, of her hair, dyed a jet black, and worn in a new and to her mind unbecoming fashion, of her darkened complexion, her extremely French costume, her heavy veil, and laughed. If Richard did see her, here in Paris, when he fully believed her to be peacefully tending her flower beds at home, he would never believe the evidence of his senses.
She was strolling toward the Champs Élysées, lost in thought, when suddenly she heard the soft throbbing of a high-powered motor car, as it came up the street behind her. She turned and glanced toward it; but the brilliant glare of the electric headlights blinded her. She could see nothing, except that the car was moving very slowly.
Suddenly it stopped, almost abreast of her, and a tall man leaped to the sidewalk. Before she had an opportunity so much as to glance in his direction, he came swiftly up behind her, threw his arm about her neck, and choked her into unconsciousness. Her last sensation was of being lifted bodily into the already moving car, and then the feeling of rapid motion, quickly blotted out by the coming of insensibility.
When she returned to consciousness, it was broad daylight. She lay upon a small wooden bed, in a low-ceilinged little room, the only furniture of which was a small chest of drawers and a chair. Upon this chair sat a large man, his face so thoroughly hidden by a mask that his features were quite unrecognizable. He was regarding her with keen scrutiny.
"Oh—what—where am I?" she gasped.
The man hesitated for a moment, then slowly spoke. "Where you are, mademoiselle, is of no importance. Attend to what I have to say."
Grace made no reply. There seemed nothing that she could say. She sat up and gazed at the man, half dazed. Her head swam. She felt that she had been drugged.
"Ten days ago," the man went on, in a coldand menacing voice, "the child of Monsieur Stapleton was taken from his nurse in the Bois de Boulogne. You are trying to find that child."
"But—" Grace made a movement of protest.
"It is useless to deny it. You have been watched."
Grace gasped in silence.
"I desire to send a message to the boy's father, and I have chosen you to take it to him. I have selected you, because to send one of my own men would doubtless result in his arrest. That is why you have been brought here."
"The—the child is safe?" asked Grace.
"Perfectly. You shall see for yourself." He motioned to the window.
Grace rose, and looked out. The view comprised a bit of garden, surrounded by bushes. She could see nothing beyond—nothing that would enable her in any way to identify the place. On the tiny plat of grass in the garden sat a child—a little girl, playing with a small black and white spaniel. Her dark hair was drawn tightly beneath a pink sunbonnet. Her dress, her whole appearance, was that of a peasant child.
Grace turned from the window, bewildered. "I see nothing," she said, "except a little girl—"
"That is the child of Monsieur Stapleton," the man said. "Now attend to the message."
She sat down again, wondering.
"Tell the boy's father this: He will leave his house tomorrow evening, in his automobile, at eight o'clock. He will bring with him, in a package, the sum of five hundred thousand francs—one hundred thousand dollars. He will have with him, in the automobile, no one but himself and his chauffeur. He will leave Paris by the Porte de Versailles, and drive along the road to Versailles at a speed of twelve miles an hour. Somewhere upon that road, among the many automobiles that will pass him, will be one, from which a blue light will flash, as it approaches him. It will also slow up. He will toss the package of bank notes into that car, and drive on. If the package contains the sum of five hundred thousand francs, he will find his child at his house, upon his return. If not, or if these instructions are not carried out to the letter—if there is any attempt made at pursuit—the child will not be there, and you can tell him that he will be given but one more chance. After that, the boy will die."
The man in the mask made this gruesome statement with the utmost coolness.
Grace listened, aghast at the cruelty of his words, and at the same time struck by the extreme ingenuity of the plan. To catch the perpetrators of the crime, under these circumstances, seemed impossible. A rapidly moving automobile—one of a hundred. An instant's flash of a blue light in passing—the tossing into the car of the money—and it would speed away into the darkness, beyond any hope of detection. Should Mr. Stapleton have others in his car—should he have his car followed by a second, containing armed men, the occupants of the kidnapper's machine would no doubt refuse to give the signal, and nothing would be accomplished. It would be impracticable to line the road, for a possible distance of twenty miles, with gendarmes, nor could their presence accomplish anything, beyond putting the kidnappers on guard, and preventing the carrying out of the plan.
The weakest point in the whole scheme seemed, to Grace at least, the delivery of the child to Mr. Stapleton, provided he paid the money demanded. Just how that was to be accomplished, without subjecting the person who brought the boy to arrest, she did not see. A moment's reflection, however, showed her that a stranger might beemployed, at any point, who for a few francs would agree to take the child to the house. She turned to the man before her with feelings not devoid of admiration.
"How can Mr. Stapleton know that you will do as you say?"
The man shrugged his shoulders. "That is a chance he must take. If he does not believe that the child will be delivered to him, provided he pays the money, he had better not pay it. But if he does his part, I shall do mine—and this I swear by the memory of my mother!"
Grace shuddered. A wretch of this sort, talking about the memory of his mother! "Very well," she said quietly, "I will take your message."
"Good! You will not leave here, of course, until it is dark—tonight. You will be blindfolded, and conducted to some point in the city. From there, you can make your way to Monsieur Stapleton's house." He rose, and went toward the door. "Make no attempt to escape. It will be useless. Any attempts on the part of the police to interfere with the plan I have outlined will result in nothing. Food will be sent in to you at once. Good morning."
It was close to ten o'clock that night, as nearly as Grace could judge, when she was led a considerable distance blindfolded, to a closed automobile, and driven away. She could form no idea of her whereabouts. The car continued on its way, for over an hour. Once she attempted to snatch the bandage from her eyes; but a hand was placed upon her arm by another occupant of the machine, and a low voice warned her to desist.
After an interminable ride, the car suddenly stopped, and she felt the man at her side slip away from her and open the door. Instantly she snatched the bandage from her eyes. The man had disappeared. She stepped to the sidewalk, and looked about. She was standing upon a brightly lighted street, which seemed somehow familiar to her. The man on the box of the cab glanced down at her with a look of curious interest. She saw his face clearly, in the light of the street. It was the heavily bearded man whom she had seen take the box of cigarettes from the room of Alphonse Valentin two nights before.
Grace stood with the bandage which had encircled her eyes, still in one hand. Suddenly she saw a dark figure uncoil itself from the rear ofthe car, and drop noiselessly to the pavement as the machine started off. She gave a low cry of surprise. The man came up to her, a grim smile upon his face. It was Alphonse Valentin.
JOHN STAPLETON, the millionaire banker, accompanied by Richard Duvall, arrived in Paris early in the afternoon, and went at once to the former's house in the Avenue Kleber.
Upon their arrival, Duvall waited for sometime, while the distressed husband and wife were closeted together upstairs. At last they descended to the library, and Duvall was presented to Mrs. Stapleton.
The joy which her husband's arrival had caused her sent a new glow of hope to her careworn cheeks, and she greeted the detective most cordially. Clearly she felt that now something would at last be done, to find her missing child.
Duvall's first questions related to Mary Lanahan, the nurse. He was relieved to find that she had quite recovered from her sudden illness.
"Will you kindly have her brought here, Mrs. Stapleton?" he asked. "I would like to question her."
In a few moments the nurse appeared. She was an extremely good-looking girl, smart and well dressed. Duvall recognized in her frank face, her clear blue eyes, the same appearance of honesty which had impressed him during his interview with Patrick Lanahan, her father.
"Mary," said Mrs. Stapleton, "this is Mr. Duvall. He is trying to find Jack for us. Tell him your story."
The girl turned to Duvall, who had risen. "I can hardly expect you to believe what I am going to say, Mr. Duvall, yet I assure you that it is the solemn truth."
"Go ahead, Miss Lanahan," said the detective. "I am prepared to believe whatever you may say."
The girl sat down, at Mrs. Stapleton's request. She still was somewhat weak, from her recent illness.
"It was a week ago last Wednesday. I left the house with Master Jack at half-past ten, and we drove to the Bois."
"Just a moment, please." Duvall stopped her with a quick gesture. "How long had you been going to the Bois in this way?"
"Over six weeks."
"And you always left about the same time—half-past ten?"
"Always."
"Who accompanied you besides the child?"
"François—the chauffeur."
"Always?"
"Yes."
Duvall turned to Mrs. Stapleton. "How long has this man François been in your employ?"
"A year—in June."
"You have found him honest, reliable?"
"Always. Otherwise I should not have kept him."
The detective turned to Mary Lanahan. "Go ahead, please," he said.
"We reached the Bois shortly before eleven—François had orders to go slowly, when Master Jack was in the machine—and drove about for fifteen minutes. Then we stopped at the place where we were in the habit of playing."
"Was it always the same place?"
"Yes. There is a smooth field of grass there, and a clump of trees by the road, where the machine always waited."
"Go on."
"We left the car, and walked out over the grass. Master Jack had a big rubber ball, and he was kicking it along, and running after it. Sometimes he would kick it to me, and I would throw it back to him. We played about in that way for over half an hour. Mrs. Stapleton wished the boy to have the exercise."
"I see. And you generally played about in the same place?"
"Yes."
"How far from the road?"
"About three hundred feet."
"And from the nearest bushes, or woods?"
"A little more than that, I should say."
"You could see François, in the machine, from where you were?"
"Yes, I could see the machine. I could not always see François; for sometimes he would get out, and walk about, or sit under the trees and smoke a cigarette."
"Do you remember noticing him, on this particular morning?"
"Yes. I saw him sitting in the machine."
"What was he doing?"
"Reading a newspaper."
"Had he ever done that before?"
The girl hesitated, as though a new idea had come to her. "No—I cannot remember that he ever had."
"Very well. Go ahead with your story."
"Well—after we had played for about half an hour—I got tired and sat down on the grass. Master Jack still kept playing about with the ball. I sat idly, looking at the sky, the road—dreaming—"
"About what?" interrupted the detective, suddenly.
The girl colored. "About—about some people I know."
"Go ahead."
"I heard the boy playing, behind me. Then I looked around—and—he was gone!" The nurse made this statement in a voice so full of awe that it carried conviction to her hearers. Duvall felt that, whatever the real facts of the disappearance of the child, this woman's story was true.
"What did you do then?"
"I stood up and looked about. I thought Master Jack was hiding from me—playing a joke on me. Then I realized that there was no place that he could hide. The nearest trees were too faroff. He could not have reached them. I called and called. I was very much frightened."
"François, who heard me, came running over the grass. I asked him if he had seen Master Jack. He said, no, that he had not seen anyone. After that we searched everywhere—in the woods, along the road—for nearly an hour, but could find nothing. Then we came home, and told Mrs. Stapleton." The girl looked at her employers in fright.
"What about the rubber ball?" Duvall asked, suddenly.
"It—it was gone."
"Then it is clear that the child must have been taken away peaceably, without objection on his part. Had he struggled, cried, he would have dropped the ball, would he not?"
"I suppose so."
"How long was your head turned from him—while you were—dreaming?"
"About a minute."
"Not more?"
"No."
"How do you estimate the time so closely?"
"I'm sure it could not have been longer. A minute is quite a long time."
"What time was it when you got back to the house?"
"About—about one o'clock, I think." The girl turned to Mrs. Stapleton for confirmation of her answer.
"It was a quarter-past one," said Mrs. Stapleton, promptly. "I noted the time particularly, because it was later than usual. Mary had orders to bring Jack back for luncheon not later than one."
Duvall began to make some figures on a piece of paper. "You fix the time of the boy's disappearance at 11.30. You say you hunted for him an hour. That would be 12.30." He looked at the girl searchingly. "You arrived home at 1.15. That would mean that it took 45 minutes to get here." He turned to Stapleton. "Please send for your chauffeur, François."
Mr. Stapleton rang a bell, and ordered the servant who responded to send in the chauffeur. Meanwhile Mary Lanahan was regarding Duvall with nervous apprehension.
"We must have hunted for him longer than I thought," she said, at length.
Duvall made no reply, but waited until the arrival of the chauffeur. He proved to be a short,heavily built man, with long powerful arms, and a swarthy face—evidently from the south of France. His countenance was stolid and emotionless. He appeared the well trained servant.
Duvall addressed him at once. "How long would it take you, my man, driving fast, to reach this house from the spot in the Bois where Master Jack was lost?"
The man responded at once. "Ten minutes," he said, "easily."
"What time was it when this woman," the detective indicated the nurse, "called to you, on discovering that the child was gone?"
"I do not know."
"Have you no idea?"
"It must have been about twelve o'clock. We hunted for the boy till about one—then came home."
"The nurse says it was half-past eleven."
The man shrugged his shoulders. "It may have been. I did not observe the time."
"What were you doing?"
"I was asleep."
Mr. Stapleton started. "Asleep?" he demanded, angrily.
The man nodded. "The day was warm. Ihad nothing to do. For a time I read the paper. I must have dozed in my seat; for, the next thing I knew, the nurse was calling to me, and the boy was gone."
Duvall frowned. "Then you could not say whether anyone else was near the nurse and the boy, at the time he was kidnapped?"
"No, monsieur. I could not."
"That will do." The detective turned to Mr. Stapleton. "Have your man drive us to the place where all this occurred."
The banker gave the man the order, and he left the room. Then Duvall turned again to Mary Lanahan.
"You were taken suddenly ill one day last week. Tell us about it."
The woman looked up. "It was very mysterious, sir. I went out for a walk. At a café in the Rue St. Honoré I had a cup of chocolate."
"Alone?" asked the detective, sharply.
The woman colored. "No," she faltered. "I—I was with a friend."
"Who?"
"A—a gentleman I know." She glanced fearfully at Mr. Stapleton. "I—I would rather not give his name."
"Was it Alphonse Valentin?" asked Duvall, quickly.
The woman colored still more deeply. "Yes," she replied, in scarcely audible tones.
The banker regarded her in surprise. "Alphonse Valentin!" he cried. "The fellow I discharged last year, for dishonesty? Mr. Duvall—he's your man!"
"No—no!" exclaimed the nurse, excitedly. "He knows nothing of the matter—nothing!"
"That remains to be seen," remarked Duvall, slowly. "Where did you meet this fellow, Valentin?"
"At the café in the Rue St. Honoré."
"You had met him there frequently before?"
"Yes."
"After you left the café, what did you do?"
"We walked to the Champs Élysées and sat on a bench, talking. Suddenly I felt very ill. Mr. Valentin called a cab and sent me home."
"Give me the address of this café, please."
The woman did so. As Duvall was entering it in his notebook, a servant announced that the automobile was at the door.
In fifteen minutes the party, consisting of Mr. Stapleton, Duvall, and Mary Lanahan, were leaving the car at the spot in the Bois de Boulogne which had been the scene of the kidnapping. François was ordered to drive his machine to the exact spot, as nearly as he could tell, that it had occupied on the previous occasion. Mary Lanahan led the others to the place on the grass where she had sat.
It was evident at once that the distances she had named in telling her story were less, if anything, than the actual facts. It was quite impossible to see how, in any way, the child could have been taken from the spot she indicated, to the woods, without consuming a considerable period of time—five minutes, at least. To believe that the nurse could have turned away her head for a moment, and then looked around to find the boy gone seemed the sheerest fabric of the imagination; yet the woman, in repeating her story, stuck to it with a grim pertinacity which, it seemed, could come only from the knowledge that she was telling the truth.
Ten days had elapsed since the boy had been kidnapped. It seemed almost useless to search the spot for any evidences of the crime. YetDuvall began to go over the ground where the nurse testified that she had sat, with the most minute care. Inch by inch, he examined the turf, subjecting almost every blade of grass to a separate examination. The operation required over half an hour, and both Mr. Stapleton and the nurse grew tired of watching him, and strolled about aimlessly.
Hence they did not see him pick up a tiny object from the grass. It was a half-smoked cigarette, dirty and almost falling to pieces from the action of the weather, yet held together by a slender tip of gold.
He placed it carefully within his pocketbook, and rose. "Nothing more to be done here," he called to Mr. Stapleton, and in a moment the three were proceeding toward the waiting automobile.
Upon the return to the house, Mr. Stapleton drew the detective into his library. "Have you discovered anything, Mr. Duvall?" he inquired, making an effort to conceal his almost frantic anxiety.
"I do not know—yet. I may have a clue; but I am not sure."
"What do you think of the woman's story?"
"It seems impossible to believe it."
"You think, then, that she had a hand in the matter—she and this fellow Valentin?"
"It begins to look like it."
"On what do you base your conclusions, Mr. Duvall? I cannot bring myself to believe that Mary Lanahan is lying, ready as I am to suspect this fellow Valentin."
"First, Mr. Stapleton, on the facts themselves. The boy could not have been taken away without her knowledge. Secondly, upon some minor matters—her error of half an hour, in telling her story, for instance."
"I am sorry, Mr. Duvall, but I cannot believe that you are right. I'd suspect Valentin, at once; but if Mary Lanahan is not telling the truth, then my experience of twenty years in judging human nature has been wasted."
"Yet you yourself heard her admit that she was with Valentin only last Friday, the day she was taken ill."
"Yes. That is true." Mr. Stapleton passed his hand uncertainly across his forehead. "It's too much for me."
"Let me have a word with the nurse, alone, before I go," asked Duvall.
"Certainly," replied the banker. "I'll send her in to you."
When Mary Lanahan entered the room, the detective went up to her and eyed her sternly. "Was Alphonse Valentin with you at any time, in the Bois, that day?"
"No," replied the girl, steadily.
"Does he smoke gold-tipped cigarettes?" asked Duvall, suddenly.
The effect of this question upon the nurse was startling. She recoiled as though the detective had struck her. "He—he does not smoke at all," she gasped, her face gray with fear.
"Don't lie to me!"
"He does not smoke at all," repeated the girl, almost mechanically, and stood confronting him with a defiant air.
"Very well. That is all." The detective turned from the room and left the house.
He did not, however, go very far. It was rapidly becoming dark. He passed down the street until he judged he was out of sight of the house, then slowly retraced his steps upon the other side, until he had reached a point nearly opposite the small iron gateway which served as the servants' entrance to Mr. Stapleton's house.Here, hidden behind a tree, he watched for perhaps half an hour.
At the expiration of this period, he was rewarded by seeing a young man, evidently an under servant, emerge from the gateway. Duvall watched him as he proceeded down the street, then began to follow him.
The young man seemed in no great hurry, and at the junction of the avenue with the Champs Élysées, Duvall accosted him, speaking in French.
"Do you want to earn twenty francs, my friend?" he asked pleasantly.
The boy regarded him with a quizzical smile. "Who does not, Monsieur?" he replied.
"Let me see the note you have in your hand."
The boy drew back suddenly, and made as though to thrust the letter into his pocket. "It is impossible, Monsieur," he began.
Duvall took out a gold twenty-franc piece. "I intend to have the letter, my man. If you will give it to me peaceably, here are the twenty francs; if not, I shall be obliged to take it from you by force."
The boy regarded the detective for a moment, as though contemplating flight. Duvall seizedhim by the collar. "Give me the note," he cried, "or I'll call a gendarme and have you placed under arrest!"
The boy allowed the letter to drop to the pavement, seized the twenty-franc piece, and took to his heels.
Duvall picked it up. As he had expected, it was addressed to Alphonse Valentin, —— Boulevard St. Michel. He had waited, on the chance that Mary Lanahan would lose no time in warning her probable confederate.
The letter gave him the man's address. That was so much accomplished, at least. Then he tore it open, and read the contents. They proved more mystifying than anything that he had yet encountered in this mysterious affair.
"Destroy the cigarettes!" These three words comprised the entire contents of the note.
ALPHONSE VALENTIN came up to Grace and took her roughly by the arm. "Come with me," he said, and started up the street.
At first she felt inclined to resist him. A signal to a passing gendarme, and she could have had the man placed under arrest. Monsieur Lefevre had taken care to provide her with credentials that would insure her obtaining instant assistance from any member of the police.
Then another thought came to her. This man Valentin she very much desired to see. His position, clinging to the rear of the automobile, indicated that he was in all probability not a confederate of the kidnappers. Just what he was, she could not imagine. She determined to go along with him, and hear what he had to say.
A few minutes' walk brought them to the man'slodgings. For some reason, which she did not understand, the automobile in which she had been a prisoner had stopped on the Boulevard St. Michel within a short distance of Valentin's rooms.
When they reached the house, Valentin, instead of opening the door with a key, rang the bell. The woman who had previously admitted Grace came to the door. Valentin nodded.
"Is this the woman?" he asked.
"Yes," said the landlady, recognizing her at once. "This is the one."
"Good!" Valentin closed the door and led the way to his room. Grace followed, wondering what the man intended to do.
"Why have you come here twice during the past two days?" he asked, abruptly, after he had lit the lamp and carefully shut the door.
Grace determined to be quite frank with him. "I wanted to ask you some questions, Monsieur Valentin," she replied.
"Ha! You know my name?"
"Certainly."
He appeared somewhat uneasy. "What are you up to?"
"I am trying to find Mr. Stapleton's child."
A queer smile came over the fellow's face. "Is that why you stole the cigarettes?" he asked.
"I did not steal them. They were taken by a man with a black beard, who came in through the window when I was here."
"A black beard?" He smiled incredulously. "And you let him take them."
"Yes. Why not? Were they of such great value?"
He glanced about uneasily, but did not reply to her question. "Who was the man?" he presently asked.
"I do not know. I followed him. He entered Mr. Stapleton's house."
"Sacré! It must have been François!"
"Hardly. François has no beard."
"But he might have been disguised." He seemed very much perturbed. "What a pity I was so careless!"
"Monsieur Valentin, will you please tell me what those cigarettes have to do with the kidnapping of Mr. Stapleton's child?"
He looked at her closely for a moment. "Everything," he answered gloomily, "and—nothing. I was a fool to have left them here."
Grace began to feel more and more composed. This man did not talk like one of the band of criminals. "Do you know where the child is?" she suddenly asked.
"Perhaps." He observed her narrowly. "Do you?"
"No. If I did, I should restore him to his poor mother."
"What were you doing in that automobile?"
"I was a prisoner. And you?"
Again he evaded her question. "It is my own affair," he growled.
"Did you not see who it was that drove the car?" she asked.
Instead of replying, he flung himself into a chair. "Sit down, Mademoiselle, and tell me the whole story. If I find that you are frank with me, I promise to be equally so with you."
Suddenly Grace felt an intuition that the man was honest. She determined to do as he asked. "Very well. I will tell you the truth. I am trying to recover Mr. Stapleton's child. Last night I was watching the house. I was seized from behind, thrown into an automobile, and taken—I do not know where. This morning a message to Mr. Stapleton was given me. Tonight I wasbrought here, blindfolded, in an automobile. Then I met you. That is all I know."
Valentin appeared disappointed. "Then you do not know where the child is?" he asked.
"The child is where I was—I saw it."
As Grace said this, her companion leaped excitedly from his chair. "Then we have them!" he cried.
"I do not understand."
"Mademoiselle, this evening I was watching Monsieur Stapleton's house. Like yourself, I desire to recover the child. I saw François leave in Monsieur Stapleton's automobile. I climbed in behind, as he left the house. It was dark. He did not see me. He drove out toward Versailles."
"Toward Versailles?" exclaimed Grace.
"Yes. Why do you seem so surprised."
"Never mind. Go on."
"After a time, he stopped by the roadside. I got out, and hid in the shadow of some trees. Presently you were brought, blindfolded, by a man, who entered the car with you. When it again started, I climbed on behind. That is how I came to meet you."
"Then you don't know where the house is, from which I was brought?"
"No. There are many houses—all about. There was no way of knowing, in the dark. Did you come far—when they brought you to the automobile?"
"Yes. Several hundred yards, at least. But you know the spot, on the roadside?"
"Yes. I can find it, without difficulty."
"Monsieur Valentin, I have a plan—a very dangerous plan—for recovering Mr. Stapleton's boy. I cannot tell you what it is now. Tomorrow I will tell you—tomorrow afternoon. I shall want your assistance."
"What am I to do?"
"Can you drive an automobile?"
The man smiled. "Decidedly. It is my profession."
"Splendid! You will wait for me here, and I will come, and tell you what you are to do. I shall arrive not later than six o'clock." She rose. "Now I must go; but before I do so, tell me one thing. What is the mystery of the gold-tipped cigarettes?"
Her question seemed to drive from Valentin's face all the good nature that had dwelt there the moment before. "I cannot tell you that," he growled. "You must not ask me. Let me adviseyou to drop the matter of the cigarettes, and report your message to Mr. Stapleton at once."
For a moment, Grace almost regretted her frankness. Suppose, after all, he should prove to be but a confederate of the kidnappers, in league with Mary Lanahan, the nurse, to spirit the boy away in the first place, and now sent by them, in the guise of a spy clinging to the rear of the automobile, to find out what step she proposed to take to capture them? She paused in indecision. Suddenly there was a tapping upon the door of the room.
Valentin went to the door and cautiously opened it. The landlady stood on the landing outside. "There is a man to see you, at the door below, Monsieur," she said in a low tone.
"Who is it?"
"I do not know. He gives the name of Victor Girard."
"Very well. Send him up."
Grace heard the name—Victor Girard. A sudden wave of weakness swept over her. It was Richard! He had used the name frequently, in the past. She heard him ascending the short flight of stairs. There was no escape. Yet Monsieur Lefevre particularly insisted that he should notrecognize her. She hastily drew down her veil. "Get rid of him as soon as you can," she whispered to Valentin, and shrunk back into the shadow.
Duvall came in, glancing sharply about him. He had been waiting to see Valentin since early in the evening, and had inquired for him twice before, only to find that he was out.
"What can I do for you, Monsieur?" inquired Valentin.
The detective drew the note from his pocket—the note which Mary Lanahan had sent to Valentin, and which Duvall had intercepted. "This is for you, Monsieur?" he asked, then suddenly paused, astounded. In the dim light, he caught sight of Grace, standing on the opposite side of the room, watching him closely. "I—I thought—Monsieur—I thought you were alone," he gasped, his eyes fixed on Grace as though he had seen a ghost. "I—I beg your pardon, but—" He was unable to proceed.
Valentin looked at him in amazement. "What is it, my friend?" he asked sharply. "Tell me your business, if you please, and go. I have a visitor."
"Yes—Monsieur—so—so I see." Duvallpulled himself together with a mighty effort and turned his glance to Valentin. He had suffered a great shock. For a moment he would have been ready to swear that Grace, his dear wife, stood before him in the flesh—and yet the thing was an absurdity: Grace, with her golden brown hair, her clear complexion, was three thousand miles away! This woman, dark, typically French, was quite evidently an entirely different person; yet the resemblance was startling—he felt himself shaking in every fiber.
"Well, Monsieur, give me the letter, since you say it is for me," he heard Valentin saying.
In an instant he had recovered his self possession. "Here," he exclaimed, handing the note to the man before him. "It is from Mary Lanahan. I have read it."
"You have read it, Monsieur!" Valentin exclaimed, angrily. "By what right, then, do you presume to read my letters?" He took the note and hurriedly read its contents. "Sacré!" he exclaimed. "What does this mean?"
"It means, my friend, that I want that box of gold-tipped cigarettes."
Grace started. So Richard, too, was interested in the recovery of these mysterious cigarettes.What on earth, she wondered, could it mean?
"In the first place, Monsieur, let me inform you that I have no cigarettes, gold-tipped or otherwise. In the second place, I question your right to make any such demands."
"Does not the note from Mary Lanahan request you to destroy them?"
Valentin turned pale. "I tell you I have no such cigarettes!" he cried.
"Are they not the sort, then, that you usually smoke?"
"I do not smoke at all, Monsieur."
Duvall laughed. "So you both tell the same story, it seems. My friend, I dislike to discuss these matters before a stranger." He glanced significantly at Grace.
She dared not go. To speak—even to bid Valentin good evening, would, she felt sure, betray her. So she remained silent.
"Then take yourself off. I certainly have no desire to discuss them. I tell you, I do not smoke—I have no cigarettes—that is enough!"
"What does that note mean, then?" asked Duvall sternly.
"That is Miss Lanahan's affair—and mine."
Duvall drew out his pocketbook, and extracted from it the bit of cigarette stump, with the gold tip, which he had found that morning in the Bois de Boulogne. "Monsieur Valentin," he said, "I found this end of a cigarette at the exact place in the grass, in the Bois de Boulogne, where Mr. Stapleton's child and nurse were, when the boy was stolen. The chauffeur was asleep. You could readily have walked up, taken away the child, and no one would have been the wiser. The story of Mary Lanahan, that no one came near her, that the boy disappeared into thin air, is absurd. The presence of the half-smoked cigarette, of a kind which I have reason to believe you use, convinces me that you were there in the Bois, with the nurse, at the time of the kidnapping—if indeed you did not take an active part in it. The message from Mary Lanahan, which I have just handed you, directing you to destroy the cigarettes,—which, no doubt, she feared, after my questioning, might be used as evidence against you,—serves as strong additional proof. I believe that you know where Mr. Stapleton's child is."
The statements which her husband made convinced Grace that she had made a mistake in confidingin Valentin. She herself had seen the gold-tipped cigarettes on his table—had seen them stolen. It was not very conclusive evidence, she realized; but, taken with the nurse's letter, it was significant.
Valentin, however, did not appear to be greatly alarmed by the detective's charges. "You are mistaken, Monsieur," he said quietly. "I know nothing about the affair."
"Then what does this note mean?"
"That I cannot tell you. And, if you have any other questions to ask, I beg that you will come again—at another time. I, as you see, am engaged for the moment." He indicated Grace with a glance.
Duvall looked about, then turned to the door. His object in coming had been fulfilled. He had seen Valentin—located him—he hoped frightened him. It was one of his theories that a man, frightened by the knowledge that he is being closely pursued, is far more likely to make a false step, than one who fancies himself secure.
He darted a curious glance at Grace, as he left the room; but her face, concealed in the shadow, told him nothing. Her silent presence filled him with strange disquietude. He stationed himselfoutside the doorway of the house, determined to learn, if possible, who she was, by following her, when she left the place. He had not counted on Valentin's being with her.
The two left the house together, and the man at once called a cab. Into this he put Grace, all the while eying Duvall savagely. The latter gave up all ideas of pursuing Grace, and returned, somewhat disgruntled, to his hotel. He had barely reached it, when a message was brought to him, summoning him to Mr. Stapleton's house.
Grace, meanwhile, had driven at once to the banker's, and delivered to him the message with which she had been intrusted by the man in the black mask that morning.
Mr. Stapleton's face grew more and more angry as she proceeded with her story. He jumped up, as soon as he learned the purport of it, and, ringing up Duvall's hotel, requested the detective to come to him at once. Then he turned to Grace.
"You have no idea where this place is located?"
"Not the slightest."
"You say you saw my boy? He was safe?"
"I saw a child, which I was told was yours, Mr. Stapleton. I did not recognize him, ofcourse. You know I have never seen your son. Also, he was dressed as a girl."
Mr. Stapleton produced a photograph with nervous haste. "Was he like this?" he demanded.
"Yes. It was the same." There was sufficient resemblance, even in the disguise the boy wore, for Grace to be practically certain of his identity.
"How am I to know that these scoundrels will keep their word?" Mr. Stapleton groaned, his head on his hands.
"Do you intend, then, to give them the money?"
"Certainly. Do you suppose I would take any chances, for the matter of a hundred thousand dollars—or twice as much, for that matter? His mother and I are unable to sleep, to eat, to do anything in fact, under the strain of this thing. I shall by all means do as they ask."
"But they will get away."
"That is nothing to me. Let them. Once my boy is safe, I can spend another hundred thousand to catch them; but not now—when one false step might mean his death."
"They won't harm him, Mr. Stapleton. Theyare too anxious for the money, to let anything happen to him."
"I'll take no chances."
Grace rose. "Then I might as well be going," she said. "I don't see that I can do anything more. I shall report the matter to the Prefect of Police at once."
"Very well. And be good enough to say to him that I particularly desire that no steps be taken to prevent the carrying out of the plan. I shall pay this money and regain my boy. After that, the police may do as they like. Good evening."
"Good evening." Grace left the house, feeling singularly disappointed, in spite of the fact that Mr. Stapleton's decision apparently meant that Richard's work in Paris, as well as her own, was likely to be brought to a sudden termination.
As she was leaving the house, she saw Richard drive up in a cab. The sight of him filled her with joy; although she was forced to conceal it, and pass him by with a look of indifference. In the darkness, she knew she was safe. He recognized her of course,—recognized her, that is, as the woman he had seen in Valentin's room,—and her presence here at Mr. Stapleton's houseevidently filled him with surprise. For a moment, she thought he was about to speak to her, as he descended from his cab; but she turned away and hurried down the street, and when she looked back, he had entered the house.
MR. STAPLETON was standing in the middle of the library, when Duvall entered. He turned to him excitedly.
"Mr. Duvall," he said, "I have just heard news that I hope will restore my boy to me within the next twenty-four hours!"
"From the woman who just left the house?"
"Yes."
"Who is she?"
"An agent of the police."
"Ah! Are you certain of that?"
"I know only what she says."
Duvall looked at him curiously. "What is the news she has brought you?"
"A message from the scoundrels who have stolen the child. They want a hundred thousand dollars, to return him."
"And she brought you that message?"
"Yes." The banker regarded his questioner uneasily.
"Does it not seem rather singular, Mr. Stapleton, that a member of the Paris police should come to you with a message from the kidnappers?"
Mr. Stapleton frowned. "I had not considered that aspect of the case, Mr. Duvall. I was—and am—too anxious to get my boy back, to care by whom these fellows deliver their terms."
"What was the message, Mr. Stapleton?"
"I am to drive along the road to Versailles tomorrow evening, leaving here at eight o'clock, and moving at the rate of twelve miles an hour. Somewhere on that road, an automobile in passing will signal me with a blue light. I am then to slow up and toss into the other machine a package containing one hundred thousand dollars. If I do this, and make no attempt to follow or capture the rascals, they agree to deliver the child here—at my house—by the time I return home."
Duvall listened to Mr. Stapleton's words with growing interest. "They are a shrewd lot," he exclaimed. "They will get away in their machine, and have ample opportunity to examine the package to see that it contains the amount they demand. By signaling to confederates at any pointalong the road, or in another automobile, they can advise them whether or not to return the child."
"But how will they be able to do this, without running the risk of being caught?"
"That is easy. They take the boy to Paris, employ a passerby—a man of their own class, no doubt—for a few francs, to deliver him at your door. To trace them, through that means, will be impossible. If you give them the money, the chances are that they will never be caught."
"Nevertheless, I shall give it to them."
"I expected that, Mr. Stapleton. I can understand your feelings. It is not right, of course, to submit to this blackmail; but no doubt, were I situated as you are, I would do the same thing. Still, it is a great pity."
"Why?"
"Because we have an excellent chance to capture these fellows."
"And lose the boy!"
"Yes, that might be true. Such men are apt to retaliate very promptly, and very severely. They have no pity. I wish I might handle the case to suit myself."
"What would you do?"
"I would arrange to follow you, in a fast car, keeping say five hundred feet in the rear. I should have several men, well armed, in the car. By watching carefully, with field glasses if necessary, I would observe the car which signaled you with the blue light. When this car passed me, I would follow, but make no move which would alarm the kidnappers until they had given the signal—whatever it is—that would ensure your boy being returned to you. Then I would close in on them, and arrest them."
"Your plan, Mr. Duvall, is open to serious objections. Suppose these men, undoubtedly on the watch, observe that they are being followed. They will give no signal—and I will lose not only my child, but the one hundred thousand dollars as well. No, no, I want no interference in the matter whatever."
Duvall remained a moment in silence. "Very well, Mr. Stapleton, I am under your orders, of course. But I dislike very much to see these fellows get away."
"So do I; but there's no help for it."
"If I can work out a plan for their capture, which will not involve the loss of the boy, you are willing, I take it, to let me go ahead?"
"Yes; but I insist that you first submit the plan to me."
"Very well. And now, another matter. This woman who brought the message to you is, you say, an agent of the police. Did she attempt to explain how she came by the message?"
"Yes. She was forcibly abducted, last night, carried a long distance out into the country, and the instructions given her. She was brought back to Paris, blindfolded, tonight."
"Mr. Stapleton, what would you say were I to tell you that less than an hour ago I saw this woman in the rooms of Alphonse Valentin, a man whom I suspect to be very deeply concerned in the kidnapping of your son?"
Stapleton started. "Is it possible?" he said. "Have you any idea what she was doing there?"
"No. They seemed on excellent terms, however. Of course, it is not impossible that an agent of the police might pose as a friend of one of the criminals, and thus obtain information. But it looks decidedly queer."
"It does, indeed. Still, as I said before, if I get my boy back, I shall be satisfied." He took a turn about the room, chewing nervously uponhis long black cigar. "Now, Mr. Duvall, what is your plan to capture these fellows?"
Duvall sat in deep thought for sometime. "It is not an easy matter, Mr. Stapleton, but there is one way which promises success, and that, too, without interfering with your arrangements to recover your boy."
"What is it?"
"This. It is necessary for us, in some way, to identify the car which gives you the signal of the blue light. It will pass close to you, at a moderate speed. I want you to mark that car, so that it may be recognized at once."
"How can I do that?"
"I will place in the bottom of your machine a small device, consisting of a rubber bulb, equipped with a small nozzle, projecting through a hole in the body of the car. The bulb will be filled with indelible red stain. When you stand up, to toss the package of money to the kidnappers, you must press this bulb with your foot. The two cars will then be side by side. The pressure on the bulb will discharge a blast of the red stain against the body and wheels of the car opposite you. It will then be a simple matter to identify it."
"Yes—yes. I see that. But what then?"
"The car, in passing you, will be headed for Paris. Undoubtedly it is the intention of these fellows to enter the city. I shall station myself at the Porte de Versailles, and I will arrange to have other men, members of the detective bureau, stationed at the neighboring gates in the fortifications. All cars entering the city will be momentarily halted. The one which bears upon its body or wheels the red stain will be seized, its occupants arrested."
"But suppose they have not yet notified their confederates to return the boy to me?"
"In that event, I feel certain that the child will be found in the automobile with them. Look at the thing as you would, were you in their place. They are forced to act with great quickness. Were they to signal, by lights or otherwise, to persons along the road, they could hardly hope to get the boy to your house before you yourself return there. They know you will return home immediately at your best speed as soon as you have delivered the money to them. What more likely, then, that they will have the boy with them in the car, will drive to some prearranged point in Paris, and deliver him to the person whowill bring him to your house? That would seem, to my mind, their most probable plan."
"And if not—if the child is not with them?"
"Then there are but two courses open to them. The first is to signal, by lights or otherwise, to their confederates, before they enter Paris. If they do this, the boy will be returned to you, and we will capture the men as well. The only other alternative, of course, is for them to notify their confederates after they enter Paris."
"But, if you arrest him at the barrier, they cannot do that, and my boy will not be sent back."
"That is true; but I do not think they will wait to notify their confederates until after they enter Paris."
"Why not, Mr. Duvall?"
"First, because of the danger of being observed, in the crowded streets of the city. Secondly, because I do not think the child is in Paris at all. The woman who brought you the message from the kidnappers, I understand, saw the child at a point some distance in the country. It seems unlikely that these men would run the risk of conveying the child into the city, in broad daylight. By having the boy with them in thecar, they avoid all danger of signaling anybody. They merely inspect the package of money, run into Paris, fully believing themselves for the time being safe, drop the child at a convenient point, divide the plunder, and scatter to their respective hiding places. Criminals of this sort know perfectly well that they are far safer, hiding in a big city, than fleeing through the country in an automobile. I feel scarcely any doubt that they have the child with them."
"But if he is still in the country, and they wait until after they are in Paris before notifying their confederates?"
"Then the latter are obliged to journey a long distance out into the country, get the child, and bring him back to your house. That would require a considerable period. They could not possibly do it before you return home."
Mr. Stapleton considered the matter for a long time in silence. "Your arguments seem sound, Mr. Duvall," he presently observed. "Like yourself, I am anxious to capture these fellows. It makes my blood boil, to think of their getting away. Of course, your deductions may be wrong."
"Then at least we will get the perpetrators of the crime, and it is most likely that one of them, at least, may be persuaded to turn state's evidence, and disclose the whereabouts of your son."
Mr. Stapleton pondered the matter with great care. Evidently he feared any course of action which did not insure the return of the child.
"It seems to me, Mr. Stapleton," the detective went on, "that you owe it to the public to let me make this effort to capture these fellows. It is a grave danger to the community, to have such rogues at large. Let me try my plan. Even if it fails, you are no worse off than you are now. The attempt cannot in any way be traced to you."
"Very well," said the banker, nervously. "It is a chance—that's all. However, since it seems to involve no breach of faith on my part, I am willing to take it."
"Good! I will bring the device I spoke of to your house tomorrow, and attach it to your car. Your man François will drive you, I presume."
"Yes."
"You trust him?"
"I have no reasons for not doing so. And besides he will know nothing of the affair. His part will be merely to drive the car, as I direct him."
Duvall thought for a moment. "You will not, of course, give him his instructions until the last moment—just before you start."
"No. That will be best, I think."
"Undoubtedly. And to avoid any possible interference, I think I had better not attach the identifying device of which I have spoken to your car until late tomorrow afternoon, immediately before you set out. Then, if by any chance your chauffeur is in this plot, he will have no opportunity to give a warning."
"Very well. I think, however, that your precautions are needless. There has been nothing whatever brought out to connect François with this matter."
"I know; but it is well to be careful. You will leave here tomorrow evening, at eight o'clock?"
"Yes. Promptly at eight."
"You might do well to have someone with you, some member of the police, perhaps."
"The instructions expressly forbid it."
"Ah—I see. These fellows are shrewd." He took up his hat. "Until tomorrow then. Good night."
"Good night."