The black-bearded fellow quickly replaced the handcuffs upon his own wrists. "Quick, Ramond," he cried. "Let us get out at once."
Grace was by this time in the room. She knew that she must in some way prevent these men from escaping. But how—how? They glared at her ominously. The younger man drew a revolver. Before any of them could speak, the servant appeared in the doorway for the third time. His face was pale as death. His knees knocked together from terror as he beheld the gleaming revolver, the man lying upon the floor.
"Monsieur Duvall is here!" he gasped, and stood silent.
The man on the floor, recovering his senses, began to struggle to his feet. As he did so, Duvall pushed his way past the frightened servant and strode into the room.
"Quick, Monsieur Duvall!" the fellow with the revolver cried. "I am from the Prefecture. I have one of the kidnappers in irons. The other," he pointed to the struggling man on the floor, "is about to escape me. Give me your assistance at once!"
Grace was so astounded by the sudden entrance of her husband, as well as by the kidnapper's words, that for a moment she remained speechless. Duvall bent over the man upon the floor and seized him by the throat.
"Richard! Richard!" Grace screamed, forgetful of Monsieur Lefevre and her own disguise. "Look out!"
Almost before the words had left her lips, the man with the revolver brought it down with a dull thud upon Duvall's head as he bent over the prostrate man; then, grasping his companion by the arm, he rushed from the room.
"Richard! Richard!" screamed Grace, throwing her arms about the senseless body of her husband.
Mr. Stapleton, who had entered the room, regarded her in amazement. "What are you doing?" he exclaimed.
Grace rose, her face white with suffering. "A doctor, quick! He is hurt! My God—don't you see? He is hurt!" As she spoke, she fell back, fainting, to the floor.
WHEN Richard Duvall returned to consciousness, an hour later, he lay upon a couch in Mr. Stapleton's library. A doctor, hastily summoned, was bending over him. Mr. Stapleton sat grimly in an arm chair. There was no one else in the room.
"My wife! Is she here?" the detective cried, as he tried to rise.
The doctor pushed him gently back. "Compose yourself, Monsieur," he said in a soothing voice. "You are not badly hurt. Merely stunned for the moment. A slight cut—that is all. You will be quite yourself again in half an hour."
"But my wife!" He gazed eagerly about the room.
"What do you mean, Duvall?" inquired Mr. Stapleton, calmly. "Why do you think your wife is here?"
"A trace of delirium. He will be all right ina few moments. Very usual in such cases," the doctor whispered.
"I heard her voice. She called to me by name, just as that fellow struck me."
"My dear sir, your mind is wandering. Compose yourself, I beg." The doctor attempted to press his patient back upon the pillows.
Duvall passed his hand over his forehead, completely bewildered. "I could have sworn I heard her voice," he cried.
"It was Miss Goncourt, the young woman from the Prefecture, that you heard, Duvall," remarked Mr. Stapleton quietly. He did not tell the detective that Grace, on recovering from her faint, and learning from the doctor that Richard's wound was a superficial one only, and not at all serious, had sworn them both to secrecy, on the plea that the matter was a purely private one, and likely to cause her great unhappiness if divulged. Mr. Stapleton had agreed, but had done so only upon her agreeing not to acquaint the police with his plans for the following night.
She had suddenly conceived a violent animosity toward these fellows who had not only baffled both her husband and herself, but had made the former a victim of a dangerous assault. She wasdetermined to go to work in desperate earnest, to capture them, or locate the child, before the following evening. She had promised Mr. Stapleton not to acquaint Monsieur Lefevre with the plan for returning the child which the man with the black beard had proposed. The situation put her on her mettle. She determined to get at the bottom of the whole affair before another twenty-four hours had passed. Upon leaving the house she called a taxicab, and at once ordered the chauffeur to drive her to the point on the Versailles road where, according to Valentin, she had been placed in the automobile after her interview with the kidnappers. Here, she believed, lay the starting point of the whole mysterious affair.
Duvall, his consciousness returning, insisted upon getting up from the couch, and going to work with equal determination. The way in which he had been checkmated, in the whole affair, roused him, as well, to desperation. His professional skill, upon which the banker had set such great store, seemed to have deserted him. He felt humiliated, ashamed. In three days, he had accomplished nothing whatever. It was galling in the extreme.
Mr. Stapleton's explanations of his hallucination regarding his wife he accepted as true. The resemblance which Miss Goncourt bore to Grace, together with his constant thoughts of her, were, he argued, no doubt responsible for it. The blow upon the head made his recollections of the moments immediately preceding and following the assault extremely hazy. He put the matter out of his mind, and set to work with renewed energy.
So far, it seemed, he had met with but a single clue of any importance,—the cigarette with the gold tip which he had found in the Bois de Boulogne. He determined to follow this clue until he arrived at some definite result.
As soon as the doctor had departed after dressing the wound in his head, Duvall took a stiff drink of brandy, and, sitting down with Mr. Stapleton at the latter's desk, began to reconstruct, as far as he could, all the details of the kidnapping. He spoke his thoughts aloud, taking Mr. Stapleton into his confidence, since in this way he could most readily get his ideas into concrete form.
"Mr. Stapleton, I am, I confess, greatly humiliated at the progress, or lack of progress, whichI have made in this case so far. I have made up my mind, however, to get these fellows, if it takes me the rest of the summer."
"You will have to work more quickly than that, Mr. Duvall," observed the banker coldly. "I have made arrangements to recover my child by tomorrow night."
"You are going to buy these rascals off, then?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I decline to say. I've had enough interference with my plans already. Neither you nor the police have accomplished anything. Miss Goncourt knows what I propose to do; but she has given me her word not to interfere. If you are to accomplish anything, it must be before eight o'clock tomorrow night."
"Very well. I will make my plans accordingly."
"What do you propose to do?"
"That I cannot say, at the moment. I think, however, that I shall first try to find out who it is that smokes these gold-tipped cigarettes." He drew the fragment of cigarette which he had found from his pocket, and placing it on the desk before him regarded it critically.
Mr. Stapleton gave a grunt. "What are they, Exquisites?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
The banker laughed. "Easy enough. My wife smokes them."
The detective looked up quickly. "Indeed! Brings them from America with her, I suppose."
"Yes."
Duvall began mentally to check off, in his mind, the various persons who might have used the cigarette which lay before him. Valentin, he now believed, was out of the question. His presence in the automobile, with Grace, the night before, indicated that he had nothing to do with the kidnappers.
There remained Mrs. Stapleton. Duvall had talked with her—seen her grief. He was too shrewd a judge of human nature to think for a moment that it was assumed.
Who else? Suddenly an idea flashed into his mind. He wondered that he had not thought of it before. The nurse! He recalled vividly the marks he had observed on the dresser in the woman's room in New York.
"Is Mary Lanahan in the house?" he inquired of Stapleton.
"Yes. Why?"
"Kindly have her come here."
Mr. Stapleton pressed a button on his desk in silence. In a few moments, the nurse had been brought to the room by one of the other servants. She was haggard with grief and fear.
Duvall requested her to be seated, and began to ask her a number of apparently unimportant questions regarding the kidnapping.
She answered them frankly enough, although it was clear that she was very ill at ease.
Presently Duvall got up, and, calling Mr. Stapleton to one side, asked him, in a low tone, to detain the nurse in the library for a few moments. He wished to search her room.
"But it has already been thoroughly searched by the police."
"I know. But I must search it again. It will require but a few moments."
Stapleton nodded. "I will wait for you here, Mr. Duvall," he said. "Mary, you will wait, as well."
The nurse's room was on the third floor, in a rear building. Duvall found it, after some slight difficulty, with the assistance of one of the other servants.
He seemed, on entering the room, to have but one object in view. He went at once to the mantel, and, taking from it the two small bottle-shaped vases which stood upon it, shook them both vigorously. A faint rattling sound came from the second. He turned it upside down upon the palm of his hand, and there tumbled out a quantity of ashes, and the butts of several partly smoked cigarettes. With a quiet smile he replaced them in the vase, and returned to the library.
"Mary, you may go now," he said.
When the woman had gone, he turned to Mr. Stapleton. "It was Mary Lanahan herself who smoked the cigarette which I found in the grass," he said.
"Well, what of it?" The matter seemed to the banker to be utterly without significance.
"She had, no doubt, stolen them from Mrs. Stapleton."
"Very likely. Not a very serious matter, however."
"No. But the question now arises, Why did she turn the box over to Valentin, and subsequently ask him to destroy it?"
"I cannot imagine."
"And why, later, were these cigarettes stolen from Valentin, as I understand they were?"
"It's too much for me. What do you make of it?"
"I have a theory, Mr. Stapleton; but I cannot say just what it is—yet. By the way, where is your man, François, tonight?"
"He is visiting his people, somewhere in the suburbs."
"Ah! Then I would like to search his room, as well."
"Go ahead. You will find nothing, I fear. The police have gone over it with a fine-tooth comb." He rose. "Come along, I'll go with you."
The room occupied by the chauffeur was at the very top of the house, with two windows opening through the slanting mansard roof. One of these, Duvall noted, commanded a view over the houses adjoining toward the north, beyond which could be seen the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. A second window, toward the south, commanded an extensive view toward Passy.
Mr. Stapleton, puffing because of the unaccustomed stairs, sat down upon the bed. "I cannot imagine what you hope to find here, Duvall," he grumbled.
The detective made no reply, but began a systematic inspection of the room. One of the first objects which attracted his attention was an ordinary electric searchlight, of the pocket variety, lying on the man's dresser. He picked it up, and examined it carefully.
"I got it for François," observed Mr. Stapleton, "so that he could examine the car, at night, in case of any accident or repair."
"Of course. Very useful, too. But why, I wonder, does he keep it here in his room, instead of in the garage?"
"Possibly to light himself up the stairs, at night," said Stapleton.
"Then I should think he would have it with him," remarked Duvall, dryly. "Wouldn't be of much use to him tonight, for instance." He was about to put the thing down, when his attention was attracted by two objects, hanging one on each side of the dresser, from its two uprights. They were apparently Christmas tree ornaments, made of thin glass, and they hung from the back of the dresser by means of two bits of ribbon.
They seemed at first glance to be merely souvenirs of some party, some entertainment, which the chauffeur had preserved as mementos of theoccasion. They were shaped like little cups, with a paper fringe about the top, to which the gay ribbons were attached. Duvall had seen such ornaments often before, at Christmas time. They were intended to be hung from the tree by their ribbons, and were filled with small candies or bonbons. He had almost passed them by, when something in their colors caused him to pause. One was a deep blue, the other an equally deep red. He examined the wooden uprights of the dresser with great care. All along the top of the dresser at its back was a heavy coating of dust. The top of the uprights, over which the loops of ribbon which supported the little baskets had been passed, contained no dust whatever.
Evidently the baskets had been taken down, and that too quite recently. For what purpose? he wondered. Suddenly he had an inspiration. He took down the little blue basket, and quickly placed it over the end of the searchlight. It fitted perfectly, the paper collar at its top holding the glass hemisphere snugly in place.
Mr. Stapleton was watching Duvall without particular interest. Suddenly the detective pointed the searchlight toward him and pressed the button which threw on the current. Mr. Stapletonstarted back, as his face was flooded with a beam of brilliant blue light.
Duvall replaced the little basket in the same position in which he had found it, and laid the searchlight upon the dresser. "Rather neat, isn't it?" he exclaimed.
"What do you make of it?" asked the banker.
"Your man François evidently is in the habit of making signals," the detective replied, laughing. He was beginning to feel hopeful. The search of the two rooms was bearing fruit.
For the next half-hour, Duvall went over the contents of the chauffeur's room with the utmost care. He removed and replaced, just as he found them, the contents of the dresser drawers. He opened a small wooden trunk which stood at one side of the room, and examined its contents minutely. He explored the closet, looked behind the pictures, sounded the walls. Nothing further of an unusual nature rewarded his efforts. Still he seemed unsatisfied.
"What more can you hope to find, Mr. Duvall?" inquired the banker, who had begun to find the proceedings tiresome.
The detective stood in the center of the room, and glanced about in some perplexity. "I hadhoped to find one thing more," he said; "but I am afraid it isn't here."
Suddenly he strode over to the mantel, upon which stood a small nickel-plated alarm clock of American make.
"This clock doesn't seem to be going," he remarked, then whipped out his magnifying glass and carefully studied the brass handle which projected from the back, by which it was wound up. "It hasn't been wound for several days, either. The back is covered with dust." He picked up the clock and tried to wind it; but the handle resisted his efforts.
In an instant he took out his knife, and a moment later was removing the screws which held the metal back of the clock in place.
Mr. Stapleton watched him curiously. Duvall's methods savored, to him, of the accepted sleuth of fiction. He took little stock in the tiny clues upon which the whole modern science of criminology is built.
In a few moments the detective had removed the screws and lifted out the rear plate of the clock. As he did so, he gave a grunt of satisfaction. A small pasteboard box fell out upon the mantel.
"What is it?" asked Stapleton.
"The box of cigarettes," remarked Duvall, as he opened it. "There are three missing. I shall take a fourth." He selected one of the paper-covered tubes, placed it within his pocketbook, then thrust the box back into the clock, and rapidly replaced the metal plate.
"I don't think there is anything further to be done here, Mr. Stapleton," he remarked. "I think I'll be getting along to my room. Tomorrow I shall be quite busy."
He stopped for a moment, on his way out, to glance from the window which faced toward the north. Between the buildings and trees ran the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, its course illuminated by many street lamps, and the flashing lights of passing motor cars. Duvall gazed intently at the scene before him for a few moments, then turned to the door, and, accompanied by Mr. Stapleton, descended the stairs.
As he was about to leave the house, the banker, who evidently had something on his mind, stopped him.
"Mr. Duvall," he said, earnestly, "I would like very much to know what you intend to do."
"I'm going to catch these fellows, if I possibly can," the detective replied, earnestly.
"What steps do you propose to take?"
"I cannot exactly say—yet. Why do you ask?"
"I'll tell you. The fellow who was here tonight, the one with the black beard, is coming to see me tomorrow night, at eight o'clock. I cannot tell you more than that. I did not intend to tell you that much—but I am obliged to do so."
"Obliged! Why?"
"Because I want your promise that you will make no attempt to stop him. If I had said nothing, you might have watched the house, and, upon recognizing the fellow as the one who was here tonight, have placed him under arrest. I want you to do nothing to interfere with either his coming or his going. He will be safe, after he once leaves the Arc de Triomphe in his automobile."
"But the police?"
"They know nothing of the matter. Miss Goncourt has given me her word to remain silent. She has even agreed to have the men on watch about the house withdrawn. Both you and the police may do your best to catch this man, afterI have carried out my compact with him; but until then I want you to keep your hands off."
Duvall was silent for a moment. "Very well, Mr. Stapleton, I shall do as you say. In fact, to assure you that I am carrying out your wishes, I will agree to remain here with you, at the house, throughout the evening."
"Good! I shall expect you. Good night."
"Good night." Duvall left the house, and went at once to his hotel.
Here, a few moments later, he seated himself in an easy chair, and taking from his pocket the cigarette which he had secured in the chauffeur's room, regarded it critically.
After some little time, he took a match from a box upon a nearby table, and, placing the gold tip of the cigarette between his lips, carefully lit it.
He drew the smoke into his lungs, inhaling it deeply. Once—twice—three times he repeated the operation, then threw himself back into his chair, and, closing his eyes, sat buried in thought. In his preoccupation, he allowed the end of the cigarette to fall unheeded to the floor.
After many minutes he opened his eyes and started up. "I've got it!" he cried, and, pickingup the half-burned cigarette from the floor, threw it carelessly into the fireplace.
Then he sat down at his table, drew out a sheet of paper and a map of the city of Paris, and began to make a series of drawings and calculations that occupied him far into the night.
IT was nearly ten o'clock when the taxicab containing Grace Duvall stopped alongside the road, at a point some four miles beyond the city, in the direction of Versailles. She had been unable to give the driver the exact location at which she desired to be put down, but had directed him to drive on until she told him to stop.
The spot was quite familiar to her, owing to the hours she had spent in the vicinity with the searching party the day before.
The taxicab driver seemed rather surprised to see her alight at this somewhat lonely spot; but he shrugged his shoulders with true Parisian indifference, pocketed the tip she gave him, and drove rapidly off in the darkness.
Left to herself by the roadside, Grace began to fear that she had, after all, done a rather foolish thing. Now that she was here, she hardly knew how to begin.
All about her she saw the dark outlines of cottages among the trees, with here and there a straggling light which betokened some household late in getting to bed. The country people in this vicinity—growers of flowers and vegetables or dairymen for the most part—were asleep with their cows about the time that Paris began to dine.
Occasionally the silence about her was broken by the mournful howling of a dog; but otherwise all was still.
The night was cloudless, and the lightening of the sky toward the east told her that before long a moon would rise above the trees.
Near the road she found a little rustic bench, and upon this she sat down to think.
The howling of the dog had suggested to her mind a possible clue to the house within which Mr. Stapleton's boy had been, for a time at least, confined. She could remember nothing of the garden, and but little of the room in which she had been confined; but the dog, playing upon the grass with the child, had fixed itself in her memory. She recollected distinctly that he was a poodle, mostly black, with fine curling hair, like astrakhan fur, and a pointed nose.
There were many dogs of this sort, she well knew, and yet there was one peculiarity which had impressed itself upon her memory, which would inevitably serve to identify this particular dog, should she ever see him again. His long and bushy tail, black for the most part like the rest of his body, terminated in a plume of white hair.
It was a most unusual marking in a French poodle. She had never seen it before, and she was a great lover of dogs, and knew them thoroughly. It was this fact, no doubt, which had caused her to notice the animal, at a time when her mind was filled with matters of vastly greater importance.
She had sought carefully for such a dog, on the occasion of the previous search, but had not found him. The tale about the escaped cobra had caused the country folk to lock up their pets without loss of time.
Now she hoped to find this dog, and through him discover the location of the house in which she had been confined. After that—well, she would do the best she could.
It occurred to her that she was not at all likely to discover the whereabouts of the blackpoodle by sitting here on a bench; yet she dared not start out until the moon had risen sufficiently high to light up her way.
In about an hour, the rim of the golden disk showed itself above the treetops, and a little later the black shadows about her began to grow luminous, and resolve themselves into white-walled cottages, hedges, and outbuildings of various sorts.
A narrow lane ran off from the main road, bordered on each side by lindens and poplars.
Along this lane the houses of the little hamlet were set, some near the road, others quite a distance back. She rose, and began to walk slowly along the lane.
As she had expected, dogs of various sorts and sizes, to judge by their voices, began barking as soon as she came opposite the first house. A small fox terrier ran through the gateway of a garden, yelping sharply. The deep-toned baying of a hound sounded farther up the street. A small white poodle, and a black one of the same size, ran after her, as she went along, making friendly attempts to play. The one she sought, however, seemed nowhere in evidence.
The lane ascended a gently sloping hill, at thetop of which stood a house, somewhat larger than the others, whose outbuildings and pastures proclaimed it to be a dairy farm. There was a hedge of roses along the roadside, and a little wooden gate.
Grace heard a sharp bark on the other side of the gate as she passed it, and, stopping, glanced over. In the shadow stood a black poodle; but whether his tail showed the markings for which she sought she was unable to tell on account of the darkness. She gave the gate a gentle push, and it slowly opened. The dog ran out into the road. As he crossed a patch of moonlight, she saw that her search was ended. This, she was convinced, was the dog—and the house!
Her next problem was how to get inside. Try as she would, she could think of no excuse which would adequately account for her presence in this little frequented locality at such a time of night. That the occupants of the house had long ago retired was evidenced by the blackness of the windows, the silence which brooded over the whole place.
She looked about her. Just across the lane from the little gate a building loomed formless against a shadowy clump of trees. She went overto it, and found that it was a small shed. The door stood open. Inside stood a tumbledown old wagon, dust covered, and quite evidently unused for a long time. The shelter of the shed seemed grateful—as though she had arrived somewhere, instead of being a wanderer in the night.
There seemed nothing to do, now, but wait for daylight. She climbed into the creaking wagon and sat upon the seat. There was a back to it, which, like the seat, was covered with old and torn velveteen. She leaned back in the shadow and closed her eyes. Her walk, the night air, had made her tired. In the distance she heard, after a long time, the faint booming of a bell. She looked at her watch. It was midnight.
The next thing that Grace remembered was the loud barking of a dog. She sat up, feeling stiff and cold. Her neck and left shoulder ached painfully. A glance through the open door of the shed told her that it was still night; but there was a gray radiance in the air, a soft pale light, that betokened the coming of dawn.
She crept stiffly down from the wagon, and again consulted her watch. It marked the hour of four. Through a dusty window in the sideof the shed she saw the eastern sky, rose streaked and bright, heralding the sun.
As the light increased, she saw the dog that had disturbed her sleep running about on the grass in front of the house opposite. The house seemed much nearer, in the daylight, than it had appeared at night. She examined the dog closely. The white tip of his tail, waving gaily in the morning light, showed her that it was the one she had sought.
She crouched in the dim shadow of the half-open door and watched the scene before her. There was a man, moving about among the small buildings to the right. She heard him performing some task—she could not at first make out what. Presently the lowing of cattle, the rattle of a bucket, as it was drawn up by a creaking windlass, told her that the man was tending his cows.
Quite half an hour later she saw him going toward the house, a pail, evidently well filled, in each hand.
Then ensued another long silence. The curling wisp of smoke from the chimney of the cottage indicated breakfast, and Grace suddenly realized that she felt cold, and hungry. For thefirst time in her life she realized how important one's breakfast is, in beginning the day.
Presently the man reappeared and went toward a small building which Grace took to be the barn. She could see him clearly now; for the sun had risen above the trees and lit up the whole scene brilliantly. He was a small, wizened man, with gray hair and a slight stoop. She was quite certain that she had never seen him before.
He went to the barn, and she saw that he was engaged in harnessing a horse, which he presently attached to a farm wagon. She noted the wagon particularly. It was a low two-wheeled affair, with a dingy canvas top. A large patch in the canvas showed yellow-white in the sunlight. The horse was white.
In a little while the man began to put in the cart a variety of objects which he brought from the barn. They appeared to be baskets of vegetables or fruit, and cans of milk. Presently he stopped, and went toward the house. In a few minutes he returned. This time a woman was with him. They carried between them a large wicker basket, which appeared to be quite heavy. There was a top on the basket. Grace wondered if it could be filled with laundry.
The couple placed the basket in the wagon, putting it in from the front, so that it occupied a position close beside the driver. In getting it up over the wheel the woman let her end of it slip, and the man cursed her with such sudden sharpness that Grace was startled and crouched back into the shed. She wondered what the basket could contain, that made the man so careful, and the thought came to her, might it not be Mr. Stapleton's boy?
The idea possessed her completely. As the man drove out into the lane, and rattled down the hill toward the main road, she suddenly realized that she must follow; yet how could she hope to do so, on foot? The woman had gone back into the house. Regardless of consequences, Grace ran out into the lane, and after the wagon at full speed.
When she reached the main road the vehicle had already turned into it and was some distance away, headed for Paris, at a speed which, slow for a horse, was still much faster than she could possibly walk.
She looked up and down the road helplessly. There were several other wagons approaching, all going in the same direction—cityward. Sherealized that they were country people, farmers, taking their vegetables and flowers to the markets.
The first one to reach her was driven by a buxom-looking young woman, wearing a plaid shawl. Grace hailed her. "Will you be so good, Madame, as to take me to Paris?"
The woman glanced at her shrewdly. "I have a heavy load, Mademoiselle," she replied. Her voice was cold, uninterested.
"I will pay you five francs—"
The words had barely left Grace's lips, before the woman had pulled up her horse. "Five francs, Mademoiselle? That is another matter. Get in."
Grace clambered up beside the woman and glanced down the road ahead. The canvas-covered wagon was still in sight—mounting a hill some three or four hundred yards ahead.
The woman looked at her curiously, noting her dress, her hands, her shoes. "You are not of the country, Mademoiselle," she remarked, pleasantly.
"No. I belong in Paris." She turned to her companion. "I should like to return there as quickly as possible."
"My Susette does not care to go above a walk," the woman remarked, gazing at her horse, plodding along with mechanical steps, as though utterly unconcerned as to whether or not they ever reached Paris. The wagon ahead was now out of sight, over the brow of the hill.
"Would you like to make a louis?" Grace took a gold piece from her purse and held it in the sunlight. It glistened brightly.
The woman drew back, regarding her companion suspiciously. "A louis? Who would not? What do you mean, Mademoiselle?"
"There is a wagon ahead of us, a canvas-covered wagon, with a white horse. I am following it. If you will keep that wagon in sight until we get to Paris, I will give you this louis."
She turned the gold piece about, making it sparkle in the sun. The woman glanced first at her face, then more carefully at the coin, then, reaching over, took it in her fingers, and raised it to her mouth. Grace wondered what she was about to do. In a moment she had sunk her teeth into it, then returned it to her companion. "It shall be as you say, Mademoiselle," she exclaimed as she pulled in the reins. "Allons, Susette!"
The horse, evidently awakened from his morningdreams, started forward with a suddenness which almost precipitated Grace from her seat. The trees along the roadside began to fly past them. In ten minutes they were close behind the canvas-covered wagon, now moving along at a brisk pace.
When they reached the fortifications, the two wagons were separated by not more than a dozen feet. Grace's companion glanced at her sharply. "From here I go to Grennelle, Mademoiselle," she exclaimed.
Grace looked at the wagon ahead. "Follow it, please," she said. "I will give you another five francs."
The woman obeyed in silence. The wagon in front of them headed off toward the northwest, going in the direction of Passy. Before a great while it crossed the Pont de Passy, turned into the Rue Nicolo, and came to a stop before a small brick house, standing in a little garden.
Grace jumped down at the corner, after giving the woman the louis and the additional five francs. "Thank you," she said, and started slowly up the street.
The wagon with the canvas cover stood quietly alongside the curb. The old man who drove ithad approached the door of the house, and was ringing the bell.
Presently one of the windows on the top floor was thrown open, and a man's head was thrust out. Grace could not see his face clearly. He looked down at the man at the door, who at the same time looked up. The window was instantly closed, and a few moments later the door of the house opened and the man came out.
He stood talking with the driver in low tones for a few moments. Grace had walked on up the street, fearing to attract attention. Looking back, she saw that the two men were gazing after her. She dared not turn her head again, but at the next corner turned into a cross street. Then she stopped, and cautiously peered around the corner. The two men had gone to the wagon and were lifting out the large basket. A few moments later they disappeared with it into the house.
After a time, the old man returned with the basket in his hands. From the way he carried it Grace could see that it was empty. He tossed it carelessly into the wagon, mounted the seat, and drove off.
Grace looked at her watch. It was half pastseven. She felt cold and hungry, and determined to get something to eat at once. A little pastry cook's shop and restaurant on the opposite side of the street attracted her attention, and she crossed over, entered, and ordered rolls and coffee. She could see the windows of the house into which the two men had carried the basket, from where she sat.
She scarcely knew what to do next. It seemed almost certain that Mr. Stapleton's child was in the house across the way, and yet—it was merely an intuition, a guess, which might turn out to be entirely wrong. Yet she feared to go away, not knowing at what moment the child, if he was indeed there, might be taken elsewhere, and the clue hopelessly lost.
She finished her rolls and coffee, taking as much time to consume them as she could. She had just made up her mind to go, when the door of the house across the street opened, and a man came out. He was dark, and heavily built, and dressed in the costume affected by artists. He headed directly for the pastry shop, and Grace realized that he was about to enter it.
She turned her face away, fearing lest he might have noticed her, as she walked up the street.He did not even glance in her direction, however, but went at once to a counter at the rear of the place.
The proprietor came up to him with a smile, rubbing his hands together cheerily. "Ah! Monsieur Durand. Up early this morning, I see. What can I do for you?"
She did not catch the other's reply, nor did she dare to glance at his face. She shrank back into her corner, and, picking up a newspaper which lay in the window sill, began to read.
The new customer remained but a few moments. When he left, Grace saw that he carried a large paper bag with him, which appeared to contain rolls or bread.
He again entered the house, but this time remained inside but a few moments. A little later she left the shop, and watched him as he disappeared down the street.
For half an hour she walked about, wondering whether she should telephone Monsieur Lefevre now, or wait until she had made certain that the whole affair was, after all, not a wild goose chase. Suddenly she was seized with a new determination. She went boldly up to the house, and rang the bell.
In a few moments a sleepy-looking maid opened the door, eying Grace with lazy indifference.
"I wish to see Monsieur Durand," the latter said.
"He's out."
"Then I must wait. I am a model. He instructed me to come at eight o'clock, and to wait until he returned."
The girl shrugged her shoulders, and pointed to the stairs. "Top floor front," she grumbled, and turned away.
Grace lost no time in getting up the stairs. To her surprise, the door of the studio, upon which was a card bearing Monsieur Durand's name, was unlocked. She pushed her way boldly in, and looked about. The room was scantily furnished, and contained little besides a couple of modeling stands, several large plaster figures and casts, two chairs, and a couch, evidently used as a bed. At the rear of the room was a closet. She turned to it and threw it open. It contained only an assortment of clothes.
She felt completely baffled. There was no possible place, here, in which the child she was seeking could be hidden. Evidently she had been onthe wrong track. And yet—what had the wicker basket contained?
Suddenly she stopped, quivering with excitement. From somewhere in the room—she could not tell where—there came a low sobbing sound, as of a child, crying to itself. It vibrated throughout the room, at one moment close to her ears, the next far off, intangible, like a whispered echo. She stood, listening, every nerve tense with excitement, and still that low sobbing went on, coming from nowhere, evanescent as a dream.
The thing seemed unreal, horrifying. She gazed about helpless. Then she heard the front door of the house suddenly slam, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
RICHARD DUVALL rose, the following day, with a less troubled mind than at any time since his arrival in Paris.
His calculations of the night before had brought him to a definite conclusion.
After breakfasting in the café of the hotel he returned to his room, and rang up Monsieur Lefevre.
"I want the assistance of one of your men, Monsieur," he said.
"Ah!" laughed the Prefect. "You are—what you Americans call—up a tree, is it not?"
"Not at all. You have said that there existed between us a competition, to recover Mr. Stapleton's child. I think I am going to win. But since I am not in a position to make the necessary arrests, myself, I am going to share the glory with you, my dear friend, by allowing one of your men to do so for me."
"So you are confident?"
"Reasonably so. Can you spare Vernet for the day? He is a good man."
"One of my best. You shall have him. And if you succeed, I shall still regard myself the loser, and will buy the champagne, and the dinner at the Café Royale, as I agreed."
"And I shall be most happy to do the same should I fail. Oblige me by requesting Vernet to come to my rooms at the hotel at once. Good by."
Duvall hung up the receiver, and sat down with the drawings he had made before him. He awaited the coming of Vernet with impatience.
The latter appeared in some twenty minutes.
"What can I do for you, Monsieur Duvall?" he asked.
"Good morning, Vernet. Sit down, and have a cigar. I have a little matter I wish to talk over with you."
"Concerning the missing child of Monsieur Stapleton, I understand," remarked Vernet, as he lit a cigar and drew his chair up to the table. He glanced at the drawings before him. "What are these, may I ask?"
Duvall took up his pencil. "This, Vernet, is a map of a small part of Paris. Here, as you see,is the Avenue Kleber, terminating at the Champs Élysées just in front of the Arc de Triomphe."
"I see. It is quite plain."
"Here—this black square—is Mr. Stapleton's house. From there to the arch is a matter of some six hundred yards."
"About that, I should say. What of it?"
"Wait. The black-bearded fellow—the kidnapper—who visited Mr. Stapleton last night, and escaped by the ruse of being arrested by one of his confederates, will arrive at Mr. Stapleton's house at eight o'clock tonight."
"Mon Dieu! If that is so, we have him!"
"Not so fast. We shall not interfere with him—then."
"But, Monsieur, would you let this fellow escape? It is my duty to arrest him, as soon as he puts in an appearance."
"You are mistaken, Vernet. Your duty is to do as I instruct you. Monsieur Lefevre has placed you under my orders for the day."
Vernet laughed. "That is so," he said. "What do you wish me to do?"
"The man will come to Mr. Stapleton's house at eight o'clock, and will be given a large sum of money. He has agreed, if he is not interferedwith, to have the address where the boy may be found telephoned to Mr. Stapleton within half an hour."
"Ah! Then we shall follow, and get him after he has telephoned."
Duvall laughed. "We are dealing with a far shrewder man than that, Vernet. This fellow will do no telephoning."
"Then how will he let Monsieur Stapleton know?"
"That is just what I am trying to find out. Put yourself in his place. He is known—he dare not remain in Paris—he gets five hundred thousand francs to give up the child. Is it not natural to suppose that he will leave the city at once?"
"Yes. That is what I should do, in his place."
"Of course. Now I understand that the fellow will walk from Mr. Stapleton's house to the Arc de Triomphe, a distance of six hundred yards. He can do that easily in ten minutes."
"Yes."
"Once at the arch, he will stand awaiting a fast automobile, which will come along the Champs Élysées. This automobile will stop for an instant and pick him up, then proceed at high speed along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because it will afford him the quickest and safest road out of Paris. From the arch to the Porte Dauphine is less than a mile. He can make it in five minutes. In fifteen minutes altogether then, he is outside the walls. In another fifteen minutes, he is beyond pursuit, in the country."
"But you forget, Monsieur Duvall, that he has not yet advised his confederates that all is well, and that the address of the place where the boy is hidden is to be telephoned to Mr. Stapleton."
"No, Vernet, I haven't forgotten that. In fact, I am coming to it now. Suppose you were in this fellow's place—how would you do it?"
Vernet scratched his head thoughtfully. "He might fire a pistol from the car."
"Too dangerous. The noise of the explosion would attract attention. He must work silently."
"A wave of the hand, perhaps, to someone along the street."
"Also dangerous. This fellow realizes that every possible step will be taken to capture not only himself, but his confederates. He anticipates, no doubt, that the road will be carefullywatched. Why take chances, and run the risk of his confederates, at least, being arrested, when there are simpler, easier ways?"
"Such as what?"
"Do you not remember the signal, used on the Versailles road, the blue light?"
"Ah! Exactly. He will signal to some one in a house along the way."
"That would be easier and safer; but you will remember that there are no houses along the way—none, at least, in which a man of this sort could have a confederate hidden. But I should not say none. There is one, perhaps."
"Indeed, Monsieur. And what house is that?"
"Mr. Stapleton's. Look!" He drew toward him the sheet of paper. "Here," he placed the point of his pencil upon the black square which indicated the location of the banker's residence, "is the house. The north window of a room on the top floor commands a view of the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, from a point some 500 feet west of the Arc de Triomphe, to where it intersects the Avenue Malakoff. Beyond there, the view is interrupted. In fact, the trees along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne are to some extent an obstruction; but at the crossing with the AvenueMalakoff there is a wide and uninterrupted view."
"But a confederate in Monsieur Stapleton's own house?"
"Yes. The chauffeur, François."
"You astonish me, Monsieur. We have suspected the fellow, it is true. The very room of which you speak has been searched. We found nothing. How do you know that what you say is true?"
"Never mind how I know it—now. The point is this—François, I fully believe, will be in that room, tonight, at eight o'clock, watching carefully the automobiles which pass the intersection of the Avenue Malakoff—"
"Not necessarily, Monsieur. We can easily prevent it, by placing him under arrest."
"That is exactly what we mustnotdo. Don't you see, it is absolutely necessary, for the recovery of Mr. Stapleton's child, that the signals go through uninterrupted?"
"Of course, I had forgotten that. And these signals?"
"Naturally I cannot tell—yet. I think, however, that the automobile for which François will be looking will show a brilliant blue light, whilecrossing the Avenue Malakoff. That is, of course, if our friend the kidnapper gets safely away, without being pursued."
"And otherwise?"
"I think the light would be red. He can make either, very simply, by means of a powerful electric searchlight—one of these pocket affairs, you know, fitted with colored glasses."
"You interest me wonderfully, Monsieur Duvall. What next?"
"It is, of course, most important that the signal given shall be the correct one. There must be no interference whatever with this fellow's escape—up to that point."
"Ah—I begin to see. And what after that?"
"First, let us continue with François. He will, I think, return a blue signal to the man in the automobile, to show that he has seen, and understood. He has the means to do so all ready, in his room."
"And then?"
"He will make, I think, a similar signal from his south window to some one who is on watch, in the direction of Passy. This second person, who no doubt has the child in his care, will then go to a telephone, transmit the address of the housewhere the child is hidden, to Mr. Stapleton, and quietly depart, to join his confederate in—say—Brussels. He will run not the slightest risk of capture. If, on the other hand, that message fails to go through, the address willnotbe telephoned, and the child will probably be killed."
Vernet frowned grimly. "It is a remarkable plan, Monsieur. These fellows are no bunglers. I think, however, that we shall be able to stop them."
"How?"
"I will station myself at the Porte Dauphine with a fast automobile, a racer. When these fellows pass, I will follow them, and overtake them."
"An excellent idea, Vernet; but how, may I ask, will you know the car, when it passes you? There are hundreds of cars on the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, at eight o'clock in the evening."
Vernet laughed. "I confess, Monsieur, you have me there."
"Of course you might station a man at the intersection of the Avenue Malakoff and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne; but I do not think hewould be able to see the signal. By placing on the end of the searchlight a paper tube, the light would be invisible except in the direction in which it is pointed—and that, you will remember, is diagonally upward. A man on the sidewalk would not see it at all."
"Then, Monsieur, I fail to see that there is anything we can do."
"There is one thing, Vernet. You forget the answering signal, from the window."
The Frenchman looked at his companion with undisguised admiration. "Sacré!" he exclaimed. "You have a mind, Monsieur Duvall, in a thousand."
"Thanks," answered Duvall, dryly. "Now, my idea is, to have you select some point near the intersection of the two avenues, from which the window in the rear of Mr. Stapleton's house can be clearly seen. Station yourself there, tonight, with the fastest automobile you can secure. Let one man watch the window, another the vehicles passing in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. The moment you see the blue light, start after your man. He should be just across the intersection, on his way down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne."
Vernet rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. "We shall get him—never fear."
"Of course," said Duvall, slowly, "all this is pure assumption on my part, based upon what I have discovered in the chauffeur's room. It may not turn out as I say, but the chances are fifty to one that it will."
"And you, Monsieur? Where will you be?"
"I shall be in the room, with François. I do not propose thatheshall escape. And further—I do not know that I am correct, in my assumption regarding his signals to Passy. He may go out, and send the telephone message himself. In that case, I shall follow. Or he may, through some unforeseen accident, get the wrong signal, in which case I propose to overpower him, and give the right one. Suppose we go, now, and take a look at the intersection of the Avenue Malakoff and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, and see what arrangements can best be made. Also, if Mr. Stapleton is out in his car, we may be able to take a few observations from his chauffeur's window." He took up his hat, lighted a cigar, and led the way to the door.
They drove to the Arc de Triomphe in a cab, and, after dismissing it, walked slowly down theAvenue du Bois de Boulogne. At the intersection with the Avenue Malakoff they stopped and gazed about carefully, although in such a way as not to attract attention. A brief inspection served to confirm all that Duvall had said. It took them some little time to locate the window in the rear of Mr. Stapleton's house; but after a time they managed to do so, and saw that it commanded an uninterrupted view of the point where they stood.
Vernet was highly satisfied, as they parted. It was deemed unnecessary for him to visit the chauffeur's room, and thereby run the risk of their being seen entering the banker's house together. Vernet departed to make his arrangements for the evening, strictly cautioned by his companion not to let Monsieur Lefevre into his secret. "It is a bet," he told Vernet. "I hope we shall succeed in winning it."
After his companion had departed, Duvall dropped in to see Mr. Stapleton. He learned that the banker was out, driving in the Bois with Mrs. Stapleton, who, overcome by anxiety and grief, had great need of the fresh air to retain her health. She was fast breaking down under the strain.
Duvall went up to have another look at the chauffeur's room. He had been unable to get a thoroughly clear idea of the view from the window, the night before, owing to the darkness.
He found everything as he had left it,—the searchlight on the dresser, the colored glass ornaments hanging from their gay ribbons. The north window overlooked with perfect clearness the intersection of the two avenues, as he and Vernet had seen them from below. The other window presented a more distant view. Nearby roofs and chimneys obstructed it in part; but between them could be seen the villas and buildings in Passy, smiling in the sunlight. The sight impressed Duvall the more strongly with the cleverness of the men he sought to arrest. Somewhere in all that maze of buildings, that wide vista of houses and trees and distant fields, Mr. Stapleton's child lay concealed, and it needed but a flash of light from this window to set him free. Passing his fingers idly along the window sill, Duvall suddenly observed two parallel scratches in the white paint, which had apparently been made with the point of a knife. He knelt down, and sighted between them. His line of visionswept clear of the nearby roofs and chimneys, toward Passy.
The detective turned from the window, a smile of satisfaction on his face, and proceeded to make a careful examination of the chauffeur's closet. It was here that he intended to lie hidden. He felt certain that, in order the better to perceive and send his signals, as well as to escape detection from below, the chauffeur would allow his room to remain unlighted.
This, Duvall reasoned, would render it easy for him to lie concealed until the signal which would insure the safe return of the lost child had been given, after which he would call upon François with precision and despatch. Should anything occur to prevent the chauffeur from giving the favorable signal, he proposed to give it himself.
The closet was close to the north window, and its door opened in such a way that Duvall saw at once that in the darkened room he could readily open it sufficiently to see all that François did, without running any serious risk of detection.
He left the house at a little after noon and stopped in at a well known restaurant on the Boulevard des Italiens for lunch. He felt verywell satisfied with the course that events were taking. If only he could get through with this thing, and get back to Grace, and the farm, he would be supremely happy. He became so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to notice a gentleman who slipped quietly into the chair opposite him, until the latter leaned over and touched his arm.
He looked up suddenly. It was Monsieur Lefevre!
THE few seconds that elapsed while Grace Duvall stood in the deserted studio in Passy, waiting for the arrival of the person who was ascending the stairs, seemed like eternities, so crowded were they with terror.
What should she do—what, indeed, could she do? A dozen plans raced madly through her brain, confusing her, baffling her with their futility.
That the missing boy was within the sound of her voice, she knew; for even as she stood trembling at the ominous footsteps on the creaking stairs, she could hear the low troubled childish moaning, coming apparently from the very air in front of her, yet affording not the slightest clue as to the boy's whereabouts.
She glanced about the room in desperation. Nearer and nearer came the creaking footfalls on the stairs. She dared not leave the room now, and thereby meet the approaching man face toface on the landing; yet to remain where she was would result only in her being obliged to make some lame and halting excuse for her presence, and go, as soon as the man entered the room.
Even this she could not count upon. The fellow, no doubt a desperate and unscrupulous ruffian, might attack her, might detain her a prisoner until the child had been safely removed to another place, beyond all hope of discovery. All the work of the past twelve hours would come to nothing. And even should he let her go, in safety, he could not fail to suspect the reasons for her presence and warn his companions.
Clearly the only thing to do was to remain in the room, in hiding. There was but one place in which she could hope to escape instant detection—the closet. Yet even this promised but temporary safety; the man would be almost certain to open it, for some reason or other, and discover her presence.
It was her only chance, however, and she took it. Even as the footsteps of the approaching man sounded upon the landing outside, Grace flew across the room and into the closet, closing the door softly behind her. In her haste, one arm of a velveteen coat which hung upon a hook,became jammed in the door, with the result that it would not entirely close. She realized that it was too late to remedy the trouble now, and crouched back trembling with excitement.
The jamming of the door had caused it to remain slightly open, with a space half an inch broad between it and the casing. Through this, Grace could see a part of the room before her. She watched the door to the hallway intently, as it was thrown open.
The man she had seen in the pastry shop came in, several packages in his hands. These he placed upon a table, and at once began to prepare breakfast. A small alcohol lamp served for coffee, and butter, rolls, and fruit he produced from the paper bags before him. There was also a bottle of milk. Grace wondered if this was intended for the child.
The man went about his preparations silently. Grace occasionally obtained a good view of his face. He was apparently about thirty years of age, dark and swarthy. There was something familiar about his manner, his general appearance; although what it was, she could not tell. She was certain, however, that she had seen him before.
Once or twice he made a move, as thoughto approach the closet; but each time it was something else that claimed his attention. Once it was to get a package of cigarettes that lay upon one of the modeling stands. Grace wondered what she would have done, had he kept on toward her, and opened the closet door.
She fell to thinking, in momentary snatches, about home, and Richard. How curious it seemed for them both to be here in Paris, separated for all these days, yet so near each other! She wondered if Richard had written to her, and what he would think, not to have heard from her. Then she remembered that after all he had been in Paris but a few days—there was scarcely time for a letter to have reached him. She thought of Uncle Abe, pottering about among the flower beds, of Aunt Lucy grumbling good naturedly over her wash tubs, of Rose, singing her queer camp meeting songs in the spring twilight, of Don, and the other dogs, the chickens, and her beloved flowers, and wondered how all of them were getting along with Richard and herself both away.
Her reveries were interrupted by a sudden sound which made her start forward, tense with excitement. The man in the studio had gone fora moment beyond the line of her vision, into a corner of the room to her left. She could not see what he was doing there, and it was while waiting for him to reappear that she had fallen into her day dream.
The sound which startled her was the voice of a child, not crying, this time, but speaking clearly and distinctly. "I want to go home!" it said, in a high nervous voice. "I want to see my mamma!"
The man answered roughly, impatiently. "You can't go now. Be quiet and come and eat your breakfast."
He appeared suddenly in the line of view commanded by the crack in the door, and Grace saw that he held a small boy by one hand, and was leading him to the table. Here he placed him in a chair and set before him a glass of milk and a roll. "Hurry up now!" the man growled. "Eat your breakfast. I've got to go out."
The man's words set Grace's heart to beating with renewed quickness. If the man was going out, she would be able to escape, and take the boy with her.
She did not doubt that he was Mr. Stapleton's child. The girl's dress which he had worn onthe former occasion had been removed, and in place of it he wore a suit of dark blue, somewhat dirty and worn. His face still appeared to be very dark, and his hair, which had formerly been long and curly, was cropped close to his head. He appeared to be well, but very nervous. Grace watched him eagerly as he devoured the roll and milk.
When he had finished, the man took him by the hand and again led him to the corner of the room beyond Grace's sight. She strained her face against the opening in the door, striving in vain to see what he was doing; but it was useless.
She heard the boy begin to object, begging the man in a querulous voice to let him go out and play. His captor, however, silenced him with a sharp word, accompanied by a blow. "Get in there, and keep quiet!" Grace heard him say, and after that all was silent. A moment later the man reappeared, put on his hat, and, going out, locked the door carefully behind him. Grace wondered if the maid had told him of her call, and thereby roused his suspicions.
She waited until she heard the front door close, and then, emerging quickly from the closet, wenttoward the side of the room to which the man had gone with the child.
At first sight, there appeared to be no place where the latter could have been hidden. The two walls were of gray-tinted plaster, cracked and stained with age. There was a rickety chair and a battered plaster figure of a centaur, against which leaned an easel and a mass of sketches, covered with cobwebs and dust.
With extreme care, she examined the walls and floor. It seemed most likely that some trapdoor existed, affording an entrance to a secret closet in which the boy had been placed. A few moments' effort showed no traces whatever of such a hiding place. The floor was of planks, covered with dust, and the cracks between the boards were filled with dirt and showed nowhere evidences of having been recently moved. The walls she sounded gently with the handle of a modeling tool which she snatched up from the table; but they gave forth a uniformly solid sound.
She stood, surveying the place in perplexity. Then a sudden thought occurred to her. The ceiling! It swept low down, at the corner of the room, and above it she knew there must be anattic. She went over and began to examine the dusty plaster surface with minute care.
A sound of footsteps upon the stairs sent her scurrying back into the closet. She wondered why the man had returned so soon. Greatly to her surprise, she saw, as soon as the door opened, that the newcomer was not the one who had left her a short time before, but an older man, more heavily built. As he turned and glanced toward the side of the room where she was hidden, she saw that he wore a heavy black beard. It was the kidnapper himself—the man whom she had seen at Mr. Stapleton's house the night before!
He appeared to be annoyed, at not finding anyone in the studio, and after a moment sat down and lighting a cigar, began to read a newspaper which he drew from his pocket.
Grace watched him intently, hardly daring to breathe for fear he might hear her. An hour passed, and the air in the closet became close and hot. She felt so nervous that she could have screamed, when the door of the room suddenly opened and Durand appeared.
The two greeted each other with a nod. "Where have you been?" the older man demanded, somewhat angrily.
"I had to get a new battery." He took a short black cylinder from his pocket and laid it on the table.
"Is the boy here?"
"Yes."
"Good! Now listen to your instructions." He lowered his voice, glancing swiftly toward the closed door of the room. "At eight o'clock I shall go to the banker's house and get the money. At eight fifteen, or a little before, François will get his signal and repeat to you. If he flashes the blue light, you will release the boy, leave the room, lock the door, and go at once to the Place du Trocadero. From the little tobacco shop you will telephone the address of this place—No. 42, isn't it?—to Monsieur Stapleton. That will be about half past eight. Do not telephone before that. Then wait for me in front of the shop. Do you understand?"