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CHAPTER LVI.
AT THE RIGHT TIME

“Ye see,” explains Franz, glancing toward Leslie, “the lady’s kind o’ hesitatin’. We’ll give her a minute or two ter make up her mind.” And he goes over and takes his stand beside her.

In the moment of silence that follows, Leslie can hear her heart beat, then —

What is it that breaks that strange stillness, that startles so differently every occupant of that dingy room?

Only a voice, sweet, clear, pitiful; a child’s voice, uplifted in prayer:

“Dear God, please take care of a little girl whose Mamma has gone to Heaven —”

The rest is drowned in the shriek which bursts from Leslie’s lips; in the sudden bound made by Mamma; and the quick counter movement of Franz.

Then Leslie’s hands are beating wildly against the closet-door. Mamma, forcibly hurled back by Franz, is sprawling upon the floor, and the escaped convict is pressing against the rickety timbers.

As they yield to his onslaught, he stoops down, catches up the little crouching figure within, and turns to Leslie, who receives it with outstretched arms.

“Oh, Daisy! Daisy! Daisy!”

Sobbing wildly, she is down upon her knees, the little one tightly clasped to her bosom.

“Oh, Daisy, my darling!”

“Git out!” commands Franz, as Mamma, scrambling up, approaches with glaring eyes. “Stand back, old un. This is a new deal.”

And he places himself as a barricade before Leslie and the child, waving back the infuriated old woman with a gesture of menace.

And then heavy feet come trampling across the threshold. Men in police uniform fill up the doorway, and the foremost of them says, as he approaches the Prodigal:

“Franz Francoise, I arrest you in the name of the law!”

The priest and his two witnesses start perceptibly, and turn their faces toward Franz. Papa and Mamma slink back toward the inner room. Leslie lifts her head and looks wonderingly at the new-comers.

Only Franz remains undisturbed. With a swift movement, he whisks out a pair of revolvers and presents them, muzzle foremost, to the speaker.

“Not just yet!” he says coolly; “I ain’t quite ready. Ye’ve interrupted me, and ye’ll have to wait.”

One of his hands is slightly uplifted and, for just an instant, his head turns toward the inner room.

The two witnesses, making way for the police, lounge nearer to Papa and Mamma.

“You had better not resist, Franz Francoise,” says the leader once more. “You can’t escape us now.”

“No; I s’pose not,” assents Franz. “Oh, I know I’m cornered, but wait.”

He moves aside and looks down upon Leslie.

“This lady,” he says quietly, “and her little gal, are here by accident, and they ain’t to be mixed up in this business o’ mine. Look here, Mr. Preach – ”

The Priest comes forward, and glances at him inquiringly.

“Ye can’t afford to lose yer time altogether, I s’pose, and I’ll give ye a new contract. Ye see this lady and the little gal are being scared by these cops. I want you to take ’em away. The lady’ll tell ye where to go, and don’t ye leave ’em till ye’ve seen ’em safe home.”

Without a word of comment, the Priest moves toward Leslie.

At the same instant, and with a howl of rage, Mamma rushes forward.

“Stop her!” says Franz; and one of the two witnesses lays a strong hand upon Mamma’s shoulder.

Then the Prodigal turns to Leslie, who, with the child in her arms, has risen to her feet.

“Go,” he says gently; “you are free and safe. Go at once. That old woman will harm you if she can.”

With a start and a sudden bounding of her pulses, Leslie looks into the face of the Prodigal, only an instant, for he turns it away. And all bewildered, pallid and trembling, she yields to the gentle force by which the Priest compels her to move, mechanically, almost blindly, from the room.

The officers step back to let her pass. And as she reaches the outer air, she has a shadowy vision of Franz Francoise, with pistols in hand, standing at bay; of Mamma struggling in the grasp of the humble citizen, and uttering yells of impotent rage.

She feels the cool air upon her brow, and clasps the child closer in her arms, believing herself to be moving in a dream. Then the voice of the Priest assures her.

“Give me the child, Mrs. Warburton,” he says respectfully, “and lean on my arm. We have a carriage near.”

When Leslie had disappeared beyond the doorway, Franz Francoise throws down his pistols.

“Now then, boys,” he says quietly, “you can come and take me.”

With a yell of rage, Mamma hurls herself upon her captor.

“Let me go!” she shrieks. “Ah, ye brute, let me get at him! Let me kill the sneakin’ coward! Ah,” kicking viciously, and gnashing her teeth as she struggles to reach the Prodigal, “that I should have to own such a chicken-hearted son!”

The leader of the officers, handcuffs in hand, has approached Franz, and the others are closing about him.

As Mamma utters her fierce anathema, he turns upon her suddenly, making at the same time a swift gesture of impatience.

“Gray,” he says sternly, “bring out that old man.”

It is not the voice of Franz Francoise; it is not his manner. And as the man addressed as Gray lays a hand upon Papa Francoise, the old woman catches her breath with a hissing sound, and stares blankly.

Struggling and whimpering, Papa is dragged from the inner room, and when he stands before the group, the Prodigal says:

“Now, Harvey, make the proper use of your handcuffs. Put them on this precious pair.”

“What!”

The leader of the arresting party starts forward, and stares at the speaker, who makes a sudden movement and then faces the officers, holding in his hand a carroty wig and moustache!

Papa’s face is ashen. Mamma writhes and gurgles, staring wildly at this sudden transformation. The officers instinctively group themselves together, and the handcuffs fall from the leader’s grasp, clanking dolefully as they strike the bare floor.

“Stanhope!” gasps the officer, starting forward, and then drawing back.

And the two aids instinctively echo the word:

“Stanhope!”

“Stanhope!”

Then the man who has so long masqueraded as Franz Francoise flings aside the carroty wig and fixes a stern eye upon Mamma Francoise.

“Woman,” he says slowly; “let me set your mind at rest. You need never again call me your son. Franz Francoise is dead, and before he died he told me his story, and yours, as he knew it. If for weeks I have lived among you in his likeness, you know now why it was necessary. Oh, you are a clever pair! Almost too clever, but you are outwitted. Harvey,” turning once more to the officer, “you shall not go back without a prisoner; you shall have two. Put your bracelets on this rascally pair; and see them safely in separate cells. Holt and Drake will go with you.”

The two humble citizens glance up, and confirm by a look their leader’s assurance.

“Drake! Holt!” The man addressed as Harvey utters the names mechanically. Drake and Holt are two efficient detectives, and Harvey knows them as such. “Mr. Stanhope, I – I cannot understand.”

“And I cannot explain now.” He is actively assisting Drake to put the manacles on Mamma’s wrists. “Old woman, it will be policy for you to keep quiet; or do you want me to gag you?”

Then turning:

“One thing, Harvey; you were sent here by Van Vernet. I know that much. Now, tell me why did not Van make this attempt himself? Don’t hesitate. Van has well-nigh led you and these fellows into a scrape; he has certainly made trouble for himself. Where is he now?”

A moment Harvey hesitates. Then he says:

“I don’t know where he is, but he has gone to make another arrest.”

“Another! who?”

“A sailor; the fellow who killed the Jew, Siebel.”

Richard Stanhope swings himself around and points to Papa Francoise, as with the finger of fate.

“The man who killed the Jew, Siebel, is there!” he says sternly.

Then snatching up the wig, he readjusts it upon his head, saying, as he does it:

“Drake, Holt, look after these people; and Harvey, you may do well to ignore Vernet’s instructions for the present. He has done mischief enough already. I must prevent this last blunder.”

The carroty moustache has once more resumed its place. “Holt, you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

As the detective is once more transformed into Franz Francoise, Mamma becomes fairly livid. She makes a final frantic effort to free herself and howls out:

“Let me go; what have I done? for what am I arrested? Let me go, you impostor!”

“You will learn in good time, woman,” retorts Stanhope. “You may have to answer to several small charges: blackmail, abduction, theft, murder.”

He goes to the door; then turns and looks back at the handcuffed pair:

“Holt,” he says impressively, “watch that woman closely, and search them both at the Jail. You will find upon the woman a belt, which you will take charge of until I come.”

Mamma Francoise yells with rage. She writhes, she curses; her fear and fury are horrible to behold. As Richard Stanhope crosses the threshold, her curses are shrieked after him, and her captors shudder as they listen.

Papa is abject enough. He has been shivering, quaking, cowardly, from the first; but Stanhope’s last words have crushed him utterly. His knees refuse to support him, his eyes stare glassily, his jaw drops weakly.

And as they bear them away, the one helpless from fear, the other resisting with tiger-like fierceness, a distant clock strikes one, two, three!

CHAPTER LVII.
WHAT HAPPENED AT WARBURTON PLACE

There is unusual stir and life in the Warburton Mansion, for Alan Warburton has returned, as suddenly and strangely as he went away.

He has made Mrs. French and Winnie such explanations as he could, and has promised them one more full and complete when he shall be able, himself, to understand, in all its details, the mystery which surrounds him.

After listening to the little that Alan has to tell – of course that part of his story which concerns Leslie is entirely ignored, as being another’s secret rather than his – Mrs. French and Winnie are more than ever mystified, and they hold a long consultation in their private sitting-room.

Acting upon Alan’s suggestion – he refuses to issue an order – Mrs. French has bidden the servants throw open the closed drawing-rooms, and give to the house a more cheerful aspect.

Wonderingly, the servants go about their task, and at noon all is done. Warburton Place stands open to the sunlight, a cheerful, tasteful, luxurious home once more.

“I don’t see what it’s all about,” Winnie French says petulantly. “One would think Alan were giving himself an ovation.”

They lunched together, Alan, Mrs. French and Winnie. It was a silent meal, and very unsatisfactory to Alan. When they rose from the table, Mrs. French desired a few words with him, and Winnie favored him with a chilling salute and withdrew.

When she had gone, Mrs. French came straight to the point. She was a serious, practical woman, and she wasted no words.

They had discussed the situation, her daughter and herself, and they had decided. Winnie was feeling more and more the embarrassment of their present position. They had complied with the wishes expressed in Leslie’s farewell note, as well as by himself and Mr. Follingsbee. But this strangeness and air of mystery by which they were surrounded was wearing upon Winnie. She went out so seldom, and she grieved and pined for Leslie and the little one so constantly, that Mrs. French had decided to send her away.

She had talked of this before, but Winnie had been reluctant to go. To-day, however, she had admitted that she wished to go; that she needed and must have the change.

It was not their intention to withdraw their confidence from Leslie, or from him, or to desert their friends. Mrs. French would stay at her post, but Winnie, for a time at least, should go away. Her relatives in the country were anxious to receive her, and Winnie was ready and impatient to set out.

And what could Alan say? While his heart rebelled against this decision, his reason endorsed it, and his pride held all protestation in check.

He offered a few courteous commonplaces in a constrained and embarrassed manner.

He was aware that their unhappy complications must place himself and his sister-in-law in an unfavorable light. He realized that they had already overtaxed the friendship and endurance of Mrs. French and her daughter. In his present situation, he dared not remonstrate against this decision; he was already too deeply their debtor. He should regret the departure of Miss French, and he should be deeply grateful to Mrs. French for the sacrifice she must make in remaining.

All the same, he felt an inward pang as he left Mrs. French, and went slowly down to the drawing-room. Winnie had gone in that direction, and he was now in search of her, for, in spite of her scorn and his own pride, he felt that he must speak with her once more before she went away. She had decided to go this day, the day of his home-coming. That meant simply that she was leaving because of him.

Winnie was seated in a cavernous chair, looking extremely comfortable, and, apparently, occupied with a late magazine. She glanced up as Alan entered, then hastily resumed her reading.

Seeing her so deeply absorbed, he crossed the room, and looked out upon the street for a moment, then slowly turned his back upon the window and began a steady march up and down the drawing-room, keeping to the end farthest from that occupied by Winnie, and casting upon her, when his march brought her within view, long, earnest glances.

That she was wilfully feigning unconsciousness of his presence, he felt assured. That she should finally recognize that presence, he was obstinately determined.

But Winnie is not as composed as she seems, and his steady march up and down becomes very irritating. Lowering her book suddenly, she turns sharply in her chair.

“Mr. Warburton, allow me to mention that your boots creak,” she says tartly.

“I beg your pardon, Winnie.”

“No, you do not! I can’t see why you must needs choose this room for your tramping, when all the house is quite at your disposal.”

Alan stops and stands directly before her.

“I came, Winnie, because you were here,” he says gently.

“Well,” taking up her book and turning her shoulder towards him, “if you can’t make yourself less disagreeable, I shall leave, presently, because you are here.”

Paying no heed to her petulant words, he draws forward a chair and seats himself before her.

“Winnie,” he says gravely, “what is this that I hear from your mother: you wish to leave Warburton Place?”

“I intend to leave Warburton Place.”

“Why, Winnie?”

“Pray don’t make my name the introduction or climax to all your sentences, Mr. Warburton; I quite comprehend that you are addressing me. Why do I leave Warburton Place? Because I have staid long enough. I have staid on, for Leslie’s sake, until I’m discouraged with waiting.” There is a flush upon her cheeks and a hysterical quiver in her voice. “I have remained because it was her home, and at her request. Now that her absence makes you master here, I will stay no longer. It was you who drove her away with your base, false suspicions. I will never forgive you; I will never – ”

There is a sound behind her. She has risen to her feet, and she sees that Alan is not heeding her words; his eyes are turned toward the door; they light up strangely, and as he springs forward, Winnie hastily turns.

Standing in the doorway, pale and careworn but slightly smiling, is Leslie Warburton, and she holds little Daisy tightly clasped in her arms; Daisy Warburton surely, though so pallid, and clad in rags!

As Alan springs forward, she holds out the child.

“Alan, I have kept my word,” she says gently, wearily; “I have brought back little Daisy.”

It is the end of her wonderful endurance. As Alan snatches the child to his breast, she sinks forward and again, as on that last day of her presence here, she lies senseless at his feet.

But now his looks are not cold; he does not call a servant; but turning swiftly he puts the child in Winnie’s arms, and kneels beside Leslie.

As he kneels, he notes the presence of a man in sombre attire, and behind him, the peering face of a servant.

“Call Mrs. French,” he says, chafing the lifeless hands. “Bring restoratives – quick!”

And he lifts her tenderly, and carries her to a divan.

Then for a time all is confusion. There is talking, laughing, crying; Mrs. French is here, and Millie, and presently every other servant of the household.

For a moment, Winnie seems about to drop her clinging burden. Then suddenly her face lights up; she clasps Daisy closer, and drawing near, she watches those who minister to the unconscious one.

Leslie revives slowly and looks about her, making a weak effort to rise.

“Be quiet,” says the stranger in the priestly garments, who has “kept his head” while all the others seem dazed; “be quiet, madam. Let me explain to your friends.”

As he speaks, Alan stoops over Winnie, and kisses the little one tenderly, but he does not offer to take her from Winnie’s clasp. He turns instead and bends over Leslie.

“Obey him, Leslie,” he says softly. “We will tell you how glad we are by and by.”

She looks wonderingly into his face, then closes her eyes wearily.

“He can tell you,” she whispers; “I – I cannot.”

And then there is silence, while Alan, in compliance with a hint from the seeming Priest, motions the servants out of the room, all but Millie. Daisy has seized her hand and clings to it obstinately.

“Let her stay,” whispers Winnie. And of course Millie stays.

When they have filed out, Alan moves forward, his hand extended to close the door, and then he stops short, his attitude unchanged, and listens.

There are voices outside, and approaching feet. He hears the remonstrance of a servant, and an impatient tone of command. And then a man strides into their presence, closely followed by two officers.

It is Van Vernet, his eyes flashing, his face triumphant; Van Vernet in propia personne, and wearing the dress of a gentleman.

He pauses before Alan, and delivers a mocking salute.

“Alan Warburton, you are my prisoner!”

With a cry of alarm, Leslie lifts herself from the couch. She knows what these words mean.

Alan starts as he hears this cry, and moving a pace nearer Vernet, says, in a low tone:

“I will go with you, sir; but withdraw yourself and men from this room; I – ”

Something touches his arm.

He turns to see Winnie close beside him, her face flushing and paling, her breath coming in quick gasps.

“Alan,” she whispers, “what does he mean?”

Alan takes her quivering hand in his, and tenderly seeks to draw her back.

“He means what he says, Winnie. He is an officer of the law.”

“A prisoner! you! Oh, Alan, why, why?”

The tone of anguish, and the look in Alan’s eyes, reveal to Vernet the situation. This is the woman beloved by Alan Warburton; now his triumph over the haughty aristocrat will be sweet indeed. Now he can strike through her. Stepping forward, he lays a hand upon Alan’s arm.

“Mr. Warburton,” he says sternly, “I must do my duty. Bob, bring the handcuffs.”

As the officer thus addressed moves forward, Winnie French utters a cry of anguish, and flings herself before Alan.

“You shall not!” she cries wildly. “You dare not! What has he done?”

Vernet looks straight at his prisoner, and smiles triumphantly.

“Mr. Warburton is accused of murder,” he says impressively.

“Murder!” Winnie turns and looks up into Alan’s face. “Alan, oh, Alan, it is not true?”

“I am accused of murder, Winnie, but it is not true.”

“Oh, Alan! Alan! Alan!” She flings her arms about him clinging with passionate despair, sobbing and moaning pitifully.

And Alan clasps her close and a glad light leaps into his eyes. For one moment he remembers nothing, save that, after all her assumed coldness, Winnie French loves him.

Still folding her in his arms, he half leads, half carries her to the divan where Leslie sits trembling and wringing her hands.

“Winnie, darling,” he whispers, “do you really care?”

Then as Mrs. French extends her arms, he withdrew his clasp and turns once more toward Vernet.

“End this scene at once,” he says haughtily. “I ask nothing at your hands, Van Vernet. Secure me at once; I am dangerous to you.”

He extends his hands, and casts upon Vernet a look full of contempt. It causes the latter to feel that, somehow, his triumph is not quite complete after all. But he will not lose one single privilege, not abate one jot of his power. He takes the manacles from the hands of his assistant, and steps forward. No one else shall adjust them upon these white, slender wrists.

At that instant, as Leslie rises to her feet, uttering a cry of terror, there is a sudden commotion at the door; one of the officers is flung out of the way, and a strong hand strikes the handcuffs from Vernet’s grasp.

He utters an imprecation and turning swiftly is face to face with Franz Francoise!

“You!” he exclaims hoarsely. “How came you here? Boys – ”

The two officers move forward. But the seeming Priest, who has stood in the back ground a silent spectator, now steps before them.

“Hold on!” he says; “don’t burn your fingers, boys.

”“Answer me,” vociferates Vernet; “who brought you here, fellow? What – ”

“Oh, it ain’t the first time I’ve slipped through your fingers, Van Vernet,” the new-comer says mockingly.

Then seeing the terror in Leslie’s eyes, he snatches the wig and moustache from his head and face, and turns toward Alan.

“Mr. Warburton,” he says courteously, “I see that I am here in time. I trust that you have suffered nothing at the hands of my colleague, save his impertinence. Van, your game is ended. You’ve played it like a man, but you were in the wrong and you have failed. Thank your stars that your final blunder has been nipped in the bud. Alan Warburton is an innocent man. The murderer, if you choose to call him such, is safely lodged in jail by now.”

But Van Vernet says never a word. He only gazes at the transformed ex-convict as if fascinated.

Another gaze is riveted upon him also. Leslie Warburton leans forward, her lips parted, her face eager; she seems listening rather than seeing. Slowly a look of relieved intelligence creeps into her face, and swiftly the red blood suffuses cheek and brow. Then she comes forward, her hands extended.

“Mr. Stanhope, is it – was it you?”

“It is and was myself, Mrs. Warburton. There is no other Franz Francoise in existence. The part I assumed was a hideous one, but it was necessary.”

“Stanhope!” At the name, Alan Warburton starts forward. “Are you Richard Stanhope?”

“I am.” And then, as he catches the reflection of his half disguised self in a mirror, he gives vent to a short laugh. “We form quite a contrast, my friend Vernet and I,” he says with a downward glance at his uncouth garments. “Mr. Warburton, we – for your brother’s wife has done more than I – have brought back your little one. And I have managed to keep you out of the clutches of this mistaken Expert, or at least to prevent his ‘grip’ from doing you any serious damage. Of course you are anxious to hear all about it, but I am waited for at head-quarters; my story, to make it comprehensible, must needs be a long one, and I have asked Mr. Follingsbee to meet me there. He can soon put you in possession of the facts. Now a word of suggestion: This lady,” glancing towards Leslie, “has been very ill; she is still weak. She has fought a brave fight, and but for her your little girl might still be missing. She needs rest. Do not press her to tell her story now. When you have heard my report from Mr. Follingsbee, you will comprehend everything.”

Leslie sinks back upon the divan, for she is indeed weak. Her face flushes and pales, her hands tremble, and her eyes follow the movements of the detective with strange fixedness. Then she catches little Daisy in her arms, and holding her thus, looks again at their rescuer.

Meantime, Van Vernet has seemed like a man dazed; has stood gazing from one to the other, listening, wondering, gnawing his thin under lip. But now he turns slowly and makes a signal to his two assistants, who, like himself, have been stunned into automatons by the sudden change of events.

“Stop, Vernet!” says Stanhope, noting the sign. “Just one word with you: Our difference, not to call it by a harsher name, our active difference began in this house, when, on the night of a certain masquerade, you contrived to delay me here while you stepped into my shoes. I discovered your scheme that night, and since then I have not scrupled to thwart you in every way; how, and by what means, it will give me pleasure to explain later. For the present, here, where our feud began, let it end. I shall give a full history of our exploits, yours and mine, to our Chief, to Mr. Follingsbee, and of course to these now present. This much is in justice to myself, and to you. I think that I have influence enough at head-quarters to keep the story from going further, and – don’t fancy me too magnanimous – I shall do this for the sake of Mrs. Warburton, and of Mr. Alan Warburton, whom you have persecuted so persistently and mistakenly. As you have not succeeded in dragging their names into a public scandal, I shall withhold yours from public derision; and believe me when I say that our feud ends here. In the beginning, you took up the cudgel against me, to decide which is the better man. Put on the defensive, I have done my level best, and stand ready to be judged by my works. For the rest; I am saying too much here. I do not wish nor intend to humiliate you unnecessarily. If you will wait for me outside, I can suggest something which you may profit by, if you choose.”

There is nothing that Van Vernet can say in reply. He is conquered, and he knows it well. No scornful retort rises to his tongue, and there is little of his accustomed haughty grace in his step, as he turns silently and leaves the room, followed by his overawed, astounded and silent assistants.

At least he has the merit of knowing when he is defeated, and he accepts the inevitable in sullen silence.

Then Richard Stanhope turns again to Leslie.

“Madam,” he says, with hesitating deference, “I have kept my word as best I could, and I leave you in the hands of your friends. Forgive me for any rudeness of mine, for any unpleasant moments I may have caused you, while I was playing the part of Franz Francoise. We could have won our battle in no other way. To-morrow, I will place in your hands, through Mr. Follingsbee, some papers which will, I believe, prove most valuable. I trust that you will never again have need of the aid of a detective. Still, should you ever require a service which I can render, I am always at your command.”

With a hasty movement, as if in defiance of that which sought to hold her back, Leslie rises and extends both her hands.

“I cannot thank you,” she says earnestly; “words are too weak. But no man will ever stand above you in my esteem. In time of trouble or danger, I could turn to you with fullest trust, not as a detective only, but as a friend, as a man; the truest of men, the bravest of the brave!”

Something in her voice vibrated pitifully, then choked her utterance. She trembled violently, and all the life went out of her face.

As she sank back, Stanhope gently released her hands, and stepping aside to make way for Mrs. French and Winnie, said in a low tone to Alan:

“She has been terribly tried; do not let her talk until she is stronger. She needs a physician’s care.”

“She shall have it,” returned Alan, moving with Stanhope toward the door. “Mr. Stanhope, I – I know, through Mr. Follingsbee, of the interest you have taken in my welfare, but I realize to-day, as I could not before, how much your protection has been worth. I see what would have been the result of my remaining here. Vernet would have dragged me before the public, as a felon. But you are eager to go. I will not attempt to express my gratitude now; I expect and intend to see you again, here and elsewhere.”

He extended his hand and clasped that of Stanhope with a hearty pressure.

And then, with a sign to the sham Priest who had been his silent abettor, Stanhope hurried from the room and from the house.

Vernet was standing alone on the pavement. His two assistants, having been dismissed, were already some distance away.

“I have waited,” he said, turning his face at Stanhope’s approach, but without changing his position of body, “because I would not gratify you by running away. Have you anything further to add to your triumph?”

For a moment Stanhope’s eyes seemed piercing him through and through. Then he smiled.

“When our Chief told me, Van,” he said slowly, “that you had determined to try your strength against mine, I felt hurt, but not angry. That was a disappointment; it was the game you played at the masquerade which has cost you this present humiliation. But for that night, I swear to you, I should never have interfered, never laid a straw in your way. Let us move on, Van, and talk as we go.”

He made a signal to the disguised officer standing near him, and that individual, accepting his dismissal by a quick nod, moved down the street with an alacrity quite unbecoming to his clerical garb.

Then Stanhope and Vernet, Victor and Vanquished, turned their steps in the opposite direction.

For some moments Vernet paced on in silence, savagely gnawing at his under lip. Then professional curiosity broke through his chagrin.

“I should like to know how you did it,” he said, his face flushing.

Stanhope shrugged his shoulders and favored his interlocutor with an uncouth grimace.

“Easy ’nuff,” he said; “Hoop la!”

Vernet started and stared. “Silly Charlie!” he ejaculated.

“That’s the ticket; how did I do the role?”

Vernet ground his teeth, and pondered over this startling bit of intelligence. At last:

“I understand why the Raid failed,” he said, “but I don’t comprehend – ”

“Let me clear it up,” broke in Stanhope. “You see, I had often explored those alleys, disguised as Silly Charlie; the character was one that admitted me everywhere. Before going to the masquerade, I had prepared for the night’s work by putting my toilet articles in a carriage, and stationing it near the festive mansion. This I did to insure myself against possible delay, my programme being to drive to the agency, start my men, and then go on ahead of them, assuming my disguise as I went, for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds for the last time, before leading the men into the alleys. You delayed me a little, and I had to deal with your ‘Chinaman’ in such a way as to leave in his mind a very unfavorable opinion of ‘Hail Columbia.’ But I was there ahead of you after all; for particulars – ahem! consult your memory.”