With trembling fingers she spelled out her reply, giving the address and adding, "Come quick!"
With trembling fingers she spelled out her reply, giving the address and adding, "Come quick!"
With trembling fingers, she spelled out her reply, giving the address and adding, "Come quick." When she got the answer, "Will come at once," she felt that there was still a chance that the boy might be saved. Then came the request for her name. She gave this impatiently. What difference did it matter, so long as they came quickly.
She hastily lighted a candle which stood upon the table, then cast about her for some means whereby she might prevent the black-bearded man and his companion from entering the room, in case they should return before help arrived. There was one thing, of course, that she could do, barricade the door.
But, with the exception of the table and the light iron bed, there was nothing with which she could hope to secure it. Suddenly her eyes fell upon the great plaster centaur. It was a figure such as one might see in any art gallery or museum. It stood upon a plaster slab some six inches thick, which in turn rested upon a low wooden base. The figure was at least five feet high—a horse with a human torso and head. She knew that if she could jam this in front of the door, securing it in place with the bed and table, she might prevent the kidnappers from entering forsome little time; long enough, she hoped, to insure the arrival of the police before they had succeeded in breaking in.
She wondered if she could manage to move the thing. At first sight, it seemed impossible, and yet the base might by chance be fitted with rollers or casters. She rushed over to the figure and began to tug at it with all her strength.
She needed but a moment to discover that she could not possibly move it; but as she bent over it, her head close to its side, she heard something which made her start with sudden joy.
It was the low sobbing of a child—the same moaning sound which she had heard from time to time ever since she had first entered the room.
At times the sound had appeared to come from afar off; at others, it had seemed to be close at hand, as though originating at some point in the very air about her.
All of a sudden the truth came to her like a flash. The child was concealed within the hollow body of the statue. The thing seemed so simple, so apparent, that she wondered that it had not occurred to her before.
She gave up her attempt to barricade the door, and began feverishly to look for the opening inthe plaster cast through which the child must have entered.
It took but a few moments to find it. The whole side of the horse's body had been sawed free, by two longitudinal cuts, one along the back, the other along the belly, and two similar cuts, at the shoulder, and the flank. Heavy strips of canvas, glued across the lower cut, on the under side of the horse's belly, served as hinges, and were not visible from above.
She inserted the blade of a modeling tool which she caught up from the table, in the upper longitudinal cut, and pried the plaster side of the horse free. It fell heavily toward her, disclosing a long narrow opening; the interior, in fact, of the statue, where lay, upon a sort of bed made of an old comfort, the missing son of Mr. Stapleton.
The boy, who had evidently until a moment before been asleep, gazed up at her in surprised alarm. For over two weeks, now, he had been kept from his parents, made to move about from place to place, frightened by strange men. He had come to expect the unusual, the terrifying, and it was a scared little face that looked appealingly up at the girl as she bent over him.
For the time being she forgot the dangers whichsurrounded them, in her joy at the discovery of the boy. It had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. If she could only escape, now, with the child, nothing else would matter in the least. And between her and freedom there lay but the thickness of a single door, and yet it seemed that she could not pass it.
She lifted the child from his hiding place and stood him upon the floor, then quickly swung the heavy slab of plaster back into position. At least, she reasoned, the kidnappers, when they returned, should not at once learn that their captive had escaped.
She knew that the hiding place had been but a temporary one, a means whereby the child might be kept out of sight during the day in case strangers should happen to enter the room. As soon as the kidnappers returned, they would, she realized, spirit the child away to some more secure retreat.
She went to the door and again shook it frantically, pulling at the knob with all her strength, without producing the slightest result. The lock was evidently a strong one—the door held firm and unyielding, though she threw against it her entire weight.
Evidently there was no hope of escape here. Then she again bethought herself of the window. For a moment she gazed out into the darkness. The pavement was thirty feet below. No one was in sight. How could she ever reach the ground, with the child as well, even if she had possessed a rope? The thing was impossible.
Clearly there was nothing to do but wait. Possibly the assistance she expected from her friends, or the police, would arrive very soon—surely she could in some way keep the kidnappers occupied until then!
And suddenly she realized that the time had come. She heard the door of the house close softly, and upon the stair the sound of mounting footsteps.
Which was it, the police, or the kidnappers? The latter, she felt morally certain, since the former, in their haste to rescue the child, would beyond any question have arrived in an automobile, and at top speed.
The newcomers were mounting the stairs in a leisurely manner, as though free from any anxiety. Grace heard them pause for a moment on the first landing, then start up the second flight of stairs. It seemed to her out of the question, tostand in the middle of the room and await their entrance. At least she could postpone the fatal moment a little while, by hiding, with the boy, in the closet. She stepped into it, the child's hand in hers, and drew the door shut, just as the two men entered the room. On her way, she hastily blew out the candle.
They were the same two men that she had seen before,—the black-bearded man, now without his beard, and the artist, Durand. She saw this, as soon as the latter had relit the candle. She wondered if he would notice that the wick was still warm. Evidently he did not; for they threw themselves into chairs, lit cigarettes, and began to talk.
"Now we can speak freely," said Durand. "How did things go?"
"I got the money—gave the blue signal, and expected to be halfway to Brussels by now. What nonsense is this about a red light?"
"It is no nonsense, I assure you. I saw it with my own eyes, as plain as day."
"Then François must have made a mistake, or else he has been placed under arrest—the latter, no doubt. Now the question is, What shall we do? I think we ought to get out of Paris as soonas possible. It isn't safe to stay here." He looked about him nervously.
"Why not? You didn't telephone Monsieur Stapleton this address, did you?"
"No, naturally not."
"Then I don't see but what we are quite safe. No one knows the child is here."
"Then you don't intend to give him up?"
"Not yet. I must first find out whether or not François is in trouble."
"Let him look out for himself."
The older man frowned. "Since when, my friend," he asked, "have I been in the habit of deserting my comrades? François must go free, or Mr. Stapleton does not get his boy. That's flat. The first thing is to send his father something that will let him see that we mean business."
"We've got to be sure about François, first."
"I'll find that out, tonight. My plan is this. We must first get the child away to Lavillac's place. This is too unsafe, here. Anyone might come in."
"They'd have difficulty in finding the hiding place." The younger man grinned.
"That's all very well; but the other place issafer. And then—Lavillac's woman can look after the brat while we are away. What a pity François had to get into a mess at the last moment! I hoped to be rid of the boy, by now." The older man rose and began striding up and down the room.
"Well," he said at length, sharply, "we might as well get along. I move that we wrap the boy in a coat, take him down to the car, run quickly out to Lavillac's place, leave him there, and start for Brussels at once. The rest we can do by 'phone. François set free—the boy the same. Meanwhile, we've got to show this man Stapleton we mean business; so we'd better arrange to send him one of the kid's hands at once. If we don't, he'll have the whole Paris police force after us."
"All right. I'll get him out." He strode quickly over to the statue, pulled out the side, and gazed blankly into the empty space before him.
"Sacré! The child's gone!" he exclaimed, excitedly. "Somebody has been here—in this room—since I left it, half an hour ago."
"The door was locked."
"I know; but somebody's been here, nevertheless, for the child is gone."
"He may not be gone, Durand. It is true that he is no longer in the house; but he may be in the room, for all that. Search the closet."
The man named Durand stepped quickly to the closet door. "Not much chance," he grumbled. "And if the police knew that he was here, and have spirited him away, they may even now be waiting to spring a trap of which you and I are the rats. For all we know the place is surrounded at this very moment."
"Then the sooner we get away from it the better. Search the closet. If he's not there, we'd better make tracks for the frontier as quickly as possible. We can do nothing more without the child. François will have to look out for himself."
Durand went impatiently up to the closet door and flung it open, then both he and his companion recoiled in surprise as Grace stepped out, holding the child by the hand.
"Mon Dieu!" gasped the two men in unison.
The one who had worn the black beard was the first to recover himself. "Quick!" he cried, motioning toward Grace. "The woman is a detective. Tie her up, and let's get away at once. No doubt she has sent word to her friends. Wecan't afford to stay here another minute." He seemed greatly excited and, rushing to the window, inspected the silent street below.
Durand, meanwhile, had thrown himself upon the girl, seized her hands, and with a quick motion had secured them with a bit of cord he snatched from within the closet.
She offered no resistance, made no outcry. Both seemed equally useless. The boy stood by, watching the scene in childish wonder. So many queer things had happened to him, however, during the past few days, that he, too, remained silent.
In a moment the older man withdrew his head from the window, rushed to the closet, and drawing out a long gray coat, wrapped it about the child. "You will come along with us, Mademoiselle," he said sternly. "Make no attempt to escape, if you value your life."
"But what do we want with her?" the younger man asked, impatiently.
"You fool! Would you leave her here, to give our description to the police? It would mean certain capture in a few hours. This woman has got to be put where she can do no harm until we are safely over the frontier. It may be wiser tosilence her altogether. We'll decide about that when we reach Lavillac's. The first thing is to get out of this house without losing a moment's time. Come!" He started for the door.
As he did so, Grace heard, far off, the steady throbbing of an automobile. She felt a wave of hope sweep over her. It might be her friends, coming to her assistance. If so, they might yet arrive in time.
The two men evidently also heard the sound. "Hurry—hurry!" the older one urged, as they began to descend the stairs. "They may be on us at any moment. Go out the rear way."
Grace heard the sounds of the approaching automobile growing more and more distinct. In another minute it would stop before the door of the house. But in that minute her captors would not only have been able to descend the stairs, but would already be making good their escape through the garden at the rear of the building.
She must do something, she knew, to prevent this; but what—what? Bound as she was, how could she hope to prevent the escape of these men. She looked ahead of her, to where, a step or two in advance, the man of the black beard was hastily descending the stairs, the boy firmly heldin his arms. Behind her came his companion, candle in hand, close at her heels.
They were within half a dozen steps of the lower hall. From this she could see a dark passageway, leading to the rear of the house. Already the noise of the automobile without told her that it was stopping at the door. She heard the sound of rapid footsteps on the sidewalk; yet realized that, before her friends could break in, their quarry would have flown.
Without a moment's hesitation she sprang forward, throwing her whole weight upon the man in front of her.
The sudden shock, as she precipitated herself upon his shoulders, threw him off his balance, and he pitched forward headlong into the hallway below. The two of them, together with the child, rolled in a tangled heap to the floor. The second man, candle in hand, stopped on the stairs and gazed helplessly down, not realizing for a moment what had happened.
"Help! Help!" Grace screamed at the top of her voice, as she struggled to regain her feet, and at the same moment there came the sound of heavy blows upon the front door.
The man who had been carrying the child roseto his feet with an oath, just as his companion joined him. He turned on Grace with a howl of fury, and struck her a quick blow in the face. She had a confused vision of fleeing men, the dancing light of a candle, a rush of fresh air, and then all was blotted out in a wave of oblivion.
THE startling and dramatic entrance of Richard Duvall into Mr. Stapleton's library, ending with his announcement of the whereabouts of the kidnapped child, and his subsequent collapse, threw the entire party into confusion.
Mrs. Stapleton started up with a scream, her overwrought nerves no longer able to resist the frightful strain under which she had for so many days been laboring.
Her husband, who had completely forgotten the detective's presence in the house, in his anxious vigil at the telephone, called out instantly to one of the servants, ordering him to tell François to bring his automobile to the door.
Monsieur Lefevre, accompanied by Vernet, sprang quickly to Duvall's assistance. The Prefect felt that, if the latter's statement was correct, he had won out in the long duel for the honor of recovering the kidnapped child; but no considerationof this nature could make him any less concerned for the detective's welfare, or any the less thankful that, no matter by whose efforts, the missing child had at last been located. He had hoped that to Grace Duvall would ultimately fall the prize of success; but these things were, after all, of no serious weight, compared with the great fact, that the success had at last come.
Assisted by Vernet, he placed Duvall upon a couch, and called for brandy, and a basin of cold water.
In a few moments, under Vernet's skilful ministrations, the detective's wound had been washed and temporarily bound up, and he had been restored to consciousness. A little of the brandy soon served to dispel his faintness. He declared himself ready to accompany the expedition to Passy.
The Prefect endeavored to dissuade him; but to no purpose. The message which he had received in the chauffeur's room, to the effect that the person calling for help was Grace Duvall, his own wife, seemed so mysterious, so utterly inexplicable to him, that he could conceive no reasonable explanation for it. There was but one thing to do,—to go himself and sift the matterto the bottom. He did not expect to find Grace there, and yet—what else could the message mean?
Just as he staggered to his feet, with the announcement that he would accompany the party to Passy, two of the servants rushed into the library, and with scared faces announced that François lay, bound and unconscious, on the floor of his room. Mr. Stapleton looked quickly at Duvall.
"It's all right, Mr. Stapleton," exclaimed the detective. "The fellow is one of the gang." He turned to Monsieur Lefevre. "You'd better have him placed under arrest at once. And if your car is here, we'll use that, instead of Mr. Stapleton's. There's not a moment to be lost."
"By all means. My automobile is at the door. Vernet," he turned to his assistant, "have one of your men take charge of this fellow François at once. We must set out immediately."
Mr. Stapleton took his wife in his arms, and embraced her tenderly. "Don't worry, dear," he said. "I'll be back with the boy, inside of half an hour. Come along!" he shouted to the others, as he made for the door. "No time to waste now."
In a few moments the entire party, consisting of Mr. Stapleton, Duvall, Monsieur Lefevre, Vernet, and the Prefect's chauffeur, were driving toward Passy at a rate which set at naught all speed regulations and sent the few pedestrians who happened to cross their path scampering to the sidewalk for safety.
Duvall explained, as they went along, the mysterious messages which he had received by flashlight. No one understood them but Monsieur Lefevre. He gave a great sigh of relief. The continued and unexplained absence of Grace had alarmed him greatly. Now he began to understand the reasons for it. That part of Duvall's story which spoke of haste, the appeal for prompt assistance, made him look grave. He leaned over to his chauffeur and urged him to even greater speed.
The trees and houses along the Avenue Kleber, and later the Rue Franklin, swept by the speeding machine in a whirl of dust. In what seemed an incredibly short time the automobile dashed into the Rue Nicolo, and thundered up to No. 42.
Vernet was the first to ascend the steps of the house, closely followed by Duvall and the others of the party. As they reached the front door,and rapped loudly, they all heard a sudden commotion within, followed by cries and shouts and a fall. Instantly all four threw their combined weight against the door, shattering the lock and bursting it in.
The semidarkness showed a terrifying spectacle. On the floor lay a woman, unconscious, clutching in her arms a child, trapped in a long gray coat. Down the dark hallway leading to the rear of the house dashed the figures of two men. One of them turned, as the attacking party entered, and hurled the lighted candle which he bore full into their faces. The entire scene was instantly plunged into darkness.
The momentary light of the candle, however, had been sufficient to send a thrill of joy through at least one of the entering party. Mr. Stapleton recognized, in the white and tearful face of the child, his kidnapped boy, and, stooping, raised him tenderly in his arms.
Duvall, not knowing whether the unconscious woman was the supposed agent of the police, Mademoiselle Goncourt, or Grace, his wife, lifted her in his arms and carried her out into the air.
Vernet, followed by the Prefect, and the chauffeur, who had at once joined them, dashed fearlesslyalong the dark passage by which the two men were attempting to escape.
There was a crash, as the rear door was burst out, followed by a volley of shots as Vernet opened upon the fleeing men with his automatic revolver.
In a moment the affair was over. The foremost of the two men crumpled up before he had taken half a dozen strides through the garden, and his companion raised his hands and surrendered, begging for mercy. Within a few moments he was handcuffed, and Vernet, bending over his wounded companion, was directing the chauffeur to summon an ambulance at once.
Monsieur Lefevre returned hastily to the street. His sole concern now was for Grace. He prayed fervently that no serious harm had befallen her, and realized that Duvall was likely to resent bitterly the deception which has been practised upon him.
The latter, however, was in no mood for recriminations. No sooner had he carried his unconscious burden to the street, when Grace opened her eyes, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
"Richard—Richard!" she cried, happily. "I'mso glad—so glad!" then rested content in his arms.
The detective's brain was in a whirl. In no possible way could he account for the presence here, in Paris, under such tragic and inexplicable circumstances, of the wife whom he had left, so short a time before, peacefully sitting on the rosecovered porch of their home in Maryland. The thing seemed incredible, unbelievable; yet here was Grace, with her soft arms about his neck, her kisses on his lips, to prove its reality.
He looked at Monsieur Lefevre dully as the latter joined them upon the sidewalk, but could say nothing.
"It seems," remarked the Prefect, with a grave smile, "that not only has Mr. Stapleton found his boy, but you have found your wife."
Duvall frowned. "What is she doing here?" he asked.
"We will speak of that later, my friend," observed Lefevre, quietly. "Just at present I propose that we return to Mr. Stapleton's without a moment's delay. Her heart is breaking with anxiety." He took Grace's arm and assisted her to enter the automobile, where Mr. Stapleton had already preceded them with his son. "It is toyou, my dear child," he said to Grace, as she sunk weakly back upon the cushioned seat, "that Mrs. Stapleton will owe all her happiness."
It was a cheerful party that broke in upon the banker's wife a short time later. Duvall, under the stimulus of Grace's presence, had completely forgotten his wound; while Grace, who had been but momentarily stunned by the blow which the kidnapper had given her, was radiant with joy at once more feeling her husband's arms about her.
Monsieur Lefevre carried them both off to his house, as soon as the boy had been restored to his mother. The happiness of the banker's reunited family was too great to permit them to be even mildly interested in the affairs of Richard Duvall and his wife, and they, too, wished to be alone. It seemed to them both as though ages had passed since they had seen each other; they could scarcely realize that it had been but a little over two weeks. Richard especially seemed unable to grasp the truth of the situation. He plied Grace with numberless questions, and could scarcely believe that he had actually been within arm's length of her on at least four different occasions during the past week without knowing it.
Monsieur Lefevre advised him to leave the whole matter until the next day. "You should be proud of your wife, Monsieur," he said, gravely. "But for her, I doubt if Monsieur Stapleton would ever have seen his boy again. And that reminds me," he smiled mischievously, "that I have won that little bet. It was Mademoiselle Goncourt, of my office, that recovered the lost child."
"I think the honors are pretty evenly divided, Monsieur," laughed Grace, happily, as she pressed her husband's hand. "Don't forget that if Richard hadn't gotten my message, all my work would have gone for nothing."
"Suppose we call it a draw, then," said the Prefect. "All in the family, as you Americans say. And to show that I am not prejudiced, one way or the other, I suggest that you both, with Mr. and Mrs. Stapleton, dine with me tomorrow evening. There are many points connected with this case which are by no means cleared up, and we should talk them over. Although we have secured the missing child, and three of the kidnappers, we do not yet know how the child was stolen, or whether the nurse, Mary Lanahan, is innocent orguilty of any part in his mysterious disappearance in the Bois de Boulogne. I confess that I have all along considered her guilty, and am inclined to order her arrest at once."
"It will be useless, Monsieur," remarked Duvall, quietly. "She is entirely innocent."
"You mean that she knows nothing of how the boy was spirited away?"
"Nothing!"
"Mon Dieu! Then the thing may forever remain a mystery."
"Not at all. It is simple enough."
Monsieur Lefevre turned to him with a look of inquiry. "You mean, then, that you have solved it?"
"I do."
"Then may I ask that you will be good enough to explain it at once?"
Duvall laughed. "Monsieur Lefevre," he said, "I have a splitting headache, a bad wound in my cheek, and a burning desire to spend the next two hours talking to my wife." He drew Grace toward him, and put his arm through hers. "I am very much afraid that the explanation ofthe disappearance of Mr. Stapleton's boy will have to be put off until tomorrow."
Monsieur Lefevre watched the two as they went, arm in arm, up the stairs.
"Mon Dieu!" he said softly to himself. "They are just as much in love with each other as ever."
I MUST confess," remarked Monsieur Lefevre, as he sat with Mr. Stapleton and Duvall over their after dinner cigars the following evening, "that while the case as a whole appears simple enough to me, there are one or two points that I fail to understand."
"There are a great many thatIfail to understand," exclaimed the banker, chewing reflectively on his cigar. "However, now that the boy is safe at home, it really makes very little difference."
"On the contrary, Mr. Stapleton," remarked Duvall, "it makes a great deal of difference. For instance, I understand that you have discharged the nurse, Mary Lanahan."
"Yes. You say that she is quite innocent of any part in the kidnapping of my boy; but the fact remains that I don't trust her. I am informed that she was married to that fellow, Valentin, this afternoon."
Duvall smiled. "That was quite to be expected."
"At one time," said Mr. Stapleton, "you believed this fellow Valentin to have been concerned in the plot."
"Yes. That is true. My early investigations of the matter showed me at once that there was some understanding between these two, something which they were endeavoring to conceal. I did not at first understand the motive which actuated them. I thought it was guilt. In reality, it was love. Therefore I am not surprised to learn of their marriage." He gazed critically at his cigar for a time, in silence.
"As matters have turned out, gentlemen," he resumed, after a few moments, "there is no cause for anything but congratulation on all hands. The child is recovered, the criminals are under arrest, the money—the hundred thousand dollars you paid out, Mr. Stapleton—was found on the kidnapper's person and returned to you."
"Exactly. Nothing could be more satisfactory all around."
"And yet," went on the detective, "I have never before taken part in a case in which I have doneso little, in which I have been so uniformly unsuccessful."
Mr. Stapleton raised his hand. "My dear Duvall," he began, "but for you, we should have been nowhere."
"You are wrong, my friend. Had I kept out of the case altogether, your son would have been returned to you just the same. It is true that the men who kidnapped him would not have been caught, and your money would not have been returned to you; but the prime object which you sought, the recovery of your child, would have been realized in any event."
"That is true," remarked the Prefect; "but, from the standpoint of the police, it is the detection and capture of the criminal that is desired, not the buying of him off. By insisting on that, Mr. Stapleton, you rendered our work extremely difficult."
"So difficult, indeed," said Duvall, earnestly, "that but for the energy, the courage, the wit of a woman, all our plans would have failed. I refer to my wife. It is to her that all the credit in this affair is due."
"By all means!" said Mr. Stapleton. "I could not fail to realize, when she told her story atdinner tonight, how much Mrs. Stapleton and myself owe her. I shall have something to say on the subject of our debt, as soon as the ladies rejoin us. But tell us, Mr. Duvall, a little more about the case, as you now understand it. I confess that I am becoming more and more interested. What, for instance, was the mystery, if indeed there was any, connected with the box of gold-tipped cigarettes?"
Duvall smiled. "That, my dear sir, is in fact the crux, the starting point, of the whole affair." He settled back in his chair comfortably. "Otherwise the case was simple enough. Certain scoundrels steal a child, hold it for ransom, and frighten the parents into paying over a large sum. Nothing unusual in that. A clever scheme or two for turning the money over, and returning the child—simple, yet perfect enough to defy all attempts to foil them.
"The real mystery lay in the utter absence of any clues which would throw light on the actual stealing of the child. In this respect the case was unique. A trusted nurse swears that the child has disappeared in broad daylight, without the slightest knowledge of how it was accomplished. Here we have a case so simple, sodevoid of incident of any sort, that we are baffled at the very start by the impossibility of the thing. Yet the nurse is a woman of good reputation, honest, clearly telling what she believes to be the truth.
"But a single clue existed upon which I could build the least semblance of a case. I refer to the half-smoked cigarette with the gold tip, which I discovered in the grass at the scene of the crime. Without that apparently trivial clue, the criminals would in all probability never have been captured at all."
"But," exclaimed Mr. Stapleton, "I don't see how you make that out."
"Nor I," observed the Prefect.
"No. I suppose not. And yet, it is simple enough. That half-smoked cigarette and nothing else is the basic reason for the arrest of the three men now in your hands."
Monsieur Lefevre smiled. "Be good enough," he said, "to explain."
"Very well, I will. But first, let me indicate to you my course of reasoning. When I originally found the cigarette, I regarded it as of very small value, from the standpoint of evidence. It happened to be lying in the grass at the point wherethe crime occurred; but during the week or more which had elapsed between the stealing of the boy and my examination of the ground, a hundred people might have walked over the spot. I took it, because I realized that itmighthave a bearing on the case, and I have learned to discard no clue, however trifling it may appear, until it has been proven valueless.
"Now to go back to the cigarette, I observed at once that it was of American make, yet of such small size as to have been either used by a woman, or by a man of rather effeminate taste.
"Now if the cigarette had been used by a woman, it meant one of two things. Either it was used by Mary Lanahan herself, in which case it apparently proved nothing, or by some other woman who was there with her, and who might have had a hand in the kidnapping.
"On the other hand, if used by a man, it pointed clearly to the chauffeur, Valentin, for several reasons. He was a friend, a former lover, of the nurse. He had been discharged by Mr. Stapleton for dishonesty. He was, I had reason to know, of rather a weak and effeminate type. The cigarette was of American make, and he had but recently come from America. These things pointedto Valentin. The fact that the nurse was in love with him would cause her to shield him. I determined to try the matter out at once.
"As soon as I returned to the house, therefore, I confronted her, and asked her if Valentin smoked gold-tipped cigarettes. I did this, not because I expected to get any reply of value, but because I wished to observe her manner, her face, when I flung the question at her.
"She was greatly startled. She denied that Valentin smoked. Fifteen minutes later, she sent him a message to destroy the cigarettes.
"I at once concluded that they were working together, and were both guilty, a conclusion in which, however much I was justified by the evidence, I was quite wrong.
"Then came the attempt on the part of someone—the man with the black beard, I am told—to steal the cigarettes from Valentin. I learned that the man was followed to Mr. Stapleton's house.
"This at once threw a new light upon the matter, although I will admit a confusing one. Someone else, besides the nurse, desired the box of cigarettes removed as evidence; someone, in fact, who belonged to, or had friends in, the house.Who could this be? I could think of no one, outside of Mary Lanahan herself, but the chauffeur, François."
"Why did you first suspect him?" asked Mr. Stapleton.
"Because he was the only person, besides the nurse, who was present at the time of the kidnapping. I did not abandon my suspicions of either the nurse or Valentin. I fully believed that they knew a great deal more about the affair than they admitted. But I became convinced that François, too, was in the thing. He had testified that he was asleep when the affair occurred. I concluded at once that he was lying.
"At the first opportunity, therefore, I made a thorough search of his room, and found the box of cigarettes hidden in a clock on his mantel."
"Ha! I did not know that," exclaimed the Prefect. "What were they doing there?"
"I concluded that the fellow with the black beard who stole them from Valentin, in order to prevent their use as evidence against him, turned them over to François for a definite purpose."
"And that purpose was?"
"Their use in subsequent crimes of a similar nature."
Mr. Stapleton and the Prefect gazed at Duvall in bewilderment. "Explain yourself, my friend," exclaimed the latter. "I confess I do not understand what you are talking about. Who, may I ask, really smoked the cigarette, the remains of which you found in the grass?"
"Mary Lanahan," said the detective, with a smile.
"The nurse! Name of a dog! Then I fail to see that the matter is of the slightest importance one way or the other."
"On the contrary, Monsieur, it is of the greatest importance. May I ask whether you are, by any chance, familiar with the properties of an Eastern drug, made from hemp, and generally known as hashish?"
The Prefect sat up suddenly, and clapped his hands to his knees. "Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed. "Now I begin to understand."
"More than I do," said Mr. Stapleton.
"The cigarettes were drugged, that is all," went on Duvall. "The men who planned this thing went to work very carefully. They ascertained, through François, that Mary Lanahan was in the habit, no doubt on the sly, of using cigarettes. I discovered the fact, myself, before Ileft New York. They also learned that she smoked the same brand as Mrs. Stapleton herself used. No doubt she helped herself from Mrs. Stapleton's supply. They therefore secured, also through François, a box of these cigarettes, and had them heavily drugged with hashish. The box of drugged cigarettes was substituted, later on, for her own."
"But," exclaimed Mr. Stapleton, "how could Mary Lanahan swear that she turned away but a moment—that no one came near her?"
"When Mary Lanahan testified that, she believed that she was telling the truth. The hashish had simply destroyed her conception of the passage of time."
"Is that its effect?"
"Yes. It produces a delightful languor, a stupor in which all realization of the passage of time ceases. Sometimes, to those who use the drug, it may apparently require hours to walk a few yards. To make a momentary movement of the hand may seem to take many minutes. On the other hand, in the stupor which the drug induces, hours may be spent in the contemplation of a flower, a bit of scenery, the page of a book, without any realization on the part of theuser that more than a few seconds have elapsed. That is what happened to Mary Lanahan. She inhaled a few puffs of the cigarette, heavily charged with the drug; without knowing, of course, of its presence. She probably passed at once into a state of stupor which may have extended over fifteen minutes or more. She was not unconscious. She sat upon the grass, looking off toward the distant sky, in a waking dream, not unlike a trance, in which all the world about her—the world of sound, of movement—had simply ceased to exist. She was to all intents and purposes unconscious of what was going on about her. The kidnapper, whom I strongly suspect to be François, merely strolled up behind her, picked up the boy, and walked off with him."
The detective's listeners looked at him in astonishment. Presently Mr. Stapleton spoke. "Why do you think it was François?" he asked.
"Oh, for many reasons. Had he, on approaching, found the nurse not sufficiently under the influence of the drug, he could have pretended to wish to speak to her, on some trivial matter. Again, the child would go away with him of course without making an outcry, which he would probably not have done, with a stranger. Thereare other reasons. He no doubt took the boy to the road, and handed him to his confederates, passing in another car. The affair occurred, you will remember, in a little frequented part of the Bois.
"The subsequent actions of Mary Lanahan are a trifle difficult to account for; but I suppose them to have been as follows: On slowly coming out of her stupor, and realizing that the boy was gone, she was terribly frightened. It had seemed to her but a moment since she turned away. She fears that the cigarette has made her drowsy—she has heard that they sometimes contain opium. She thinks she may have dozed off; but is not willing to admit it. Especially does she not want her employers to know that she uses cigarettes. She fears that such knowledge would cost her her place. It is not until later that she begins to suspect the cigarettes."
"When is that?" inquired Lefevre.
"Several days later, when she is supposed to have been poisoned. She was with Valentin at the time; although, on account of Mr. Stapleton's dislike for him, she feared to admit it. She smokes another of the cigarettes, while sitting on a bench with him, in the Champs Élysées. Suddenlyshe is taken ill—a frequent result of hashish, when taken in excessive doses, or by one otherwise nervously upset. Valentin takes the box, puts her into a cab, and goes to his room, where he leaves the cigarettes. No doubt, as she begins to feel ill, she discusses with him the possibility of the cigarettes having been poisoned. It is for that reason that she gives them to him.
"Her sudden message to Valentin to destroy them arose from a fear that I would discover the part which they had played in the boy's loss. This would, she knew, not only cost her her place, but would make her, in a way, responsible for the entire affair. She feared Mr. Stapleton's wrath, and therefore both she and Valentin remained dumb, so far as the cigarettes were concerned.
"They both, however, were all this time doing their best to find the child. Her message to Valentin, that she was suspicious of François, telling Valentin to watch him, arose no doubt from a realization that the box of drugged cigarettes had been substituted for her own by the chauffeur.
"Valentin, acting on her advice, does watch François, as his presence clinging to the rear of the latter's car the other night has proved. Hetells me, today, that François did not take his car to the garage that night at all. The men there who so testified lied, at his request, supposing it merely an excuse to cover a joy ride.
"François, not wishing that the drugged cigarettes should remain in the nurse's hands as evidence against him, evidently made an attempt to recover them, discovered that she had turned them over to Valentin, and, being watched himself, sent word of the matter to his confederate, the fellow who went about in the black beard. He must have been admitted to Mr. Stapleton's house that night by François himself.
"I came to the conclusion, early in the course of my investigations, that the cigarette, the end of which I had found in the Bois, had been smoked by Mary Lanahan, and I so told Mr. Stapleton."
The banker nodded. "Yes," he said; "but you did not then say anything about the hashish."
"I was not certain of it. I intended to have the fragment I had found analyzed. When I discovered the cigarettes in François' room, you will remember that I took one of them. I smoked that cigarette, before going to bed that night. It produced exactly the sensations that Mary Lanahanmust have felt. I floated away in the land of dreams for over half an hour, and came to with no recollection whatever of the passage of time. It is a remarkable drug, but an extremely dangerous one.
"After that, the case became simple enough. I knew at once, beyond any question, that François was one of the kidnappers. My plans last night would have worked perfectly, but for the chauffeur's accidental discovery of me, hiding in the closet. Had that not happened, the boy would have been returned, according to program, and François I had safely in my hands."
"But we wouldn't have got the others," laughed the Prefect. "You must thank your wife for that. Vernet has told me how the kidnappers outwitted you at the Avenue Malakoff. The car from which the signal apparently was made contained a well known stockbroker, who knew nothing of the matter at all. He merely happened to be passing the Avenue Malakoff at the precise moment when the signal was given to François."
"You are mistaken, Monsieur," observed the detective, quietly. "The signal was undoubtedly made from that car; not by Monsieur Lemaitre, I will admit, but by his chauffeur. He has admittedto Vernet that a stranger paid him fifty francs to do so, on the plea that it was some signal to a woman. The man knows nothing of the affair, beyond that."
As he finished speaking, there was a ripple of laughter from the hall, and Mrs. Stapleton, Madame Lefevre, and Grace came in.
"We have been debating a most important question," said Mrs. Stapleton, with an assumption of extreme gravity, "and we beg that you, Monsieur Lefevre, will be so good as to decide it."
"What is this question so grave, Madame," inquired the Prefect, rising, with a smile. "I am all impatience to hear it."
"The question is this, Monsieur Lefevre: Which deserves the greater credit for the recovery of my boy—Mr. Duvall, or his charming wife?"
The Prefect stepped forward, placed one hand affectionately upon Duvall's shoulder, and with the other grasped Grace by the arm.
"The question you propound, Madame," he said, looking from the detective to his wife with a smile, "is easily answered. The credit belongs equally to both. And that, my children, is as it should be. This affair, so happily terminated,has taught me one important lesson. It is this: The husband and the wife should never be in opposition to each other. They must work together always, not only in matters of this sort, but in all the affairs of life. I attempted a risky experiment in allowing these two dear friends of mine to attack this case from opposite sides. But for some very excellent strokes of luck, it might have resulted most unhappily for all concerned. Hereafter, should Monsieur Duvall and his wife serve me, it must be together, or not at all." He turned to Grace. "I feel that I owe you both a great debt, my child, for having once again so rudely interrupted the course of your honeymoon. What reparation can I make? Ask of me what you will."
"Anything?" inquired Grace, laughing.
"Anything." The Prefect bowed gallantly.
"Then I demand your promise, Monsieur, to visit us at our place in Maryland, before the end of the year."
"That," exclaimed the Prefect, as he bent and kissed her hand, "would be the most delightful way of paying a debt that I could possibly imagine."
STORIES OF RARE CHARM BYGENE STRATTON-PORTER
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THE HARVESTER
Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs