"She will soon be all right again," she said; and, truly enough, at the end of a few seconds, the girl opened her eyes and looked dazedly about her. Then a violent trembling seized her.

"What is it, Julie?" asked her mistress, taking her hand. "You knew this man?"

A hoarse sob was the only answer.

"You must tell me," went on madame, quietly but firmly. "Perhaps a crime has been committed. You must tell me everything. You may rely upon the discretion of these gentlemen. You knew this man?"

The girl nodded, and closed her eyes; but the hot tears brimmed from them and ran down over her cheeks.

"In Paris?"

The girl nodded again.

"He was your lover?"

A third nod, and a fresh flood of tears.

"I remember, now," said madame, suddenly. "I saw him with her once. What was he doing in this house?" she went on, more sternly. "Tell us!"

"Madame will never forgive me!" sobbed the girl, and I began to think that she was more concerned for herself than for her lover. The same thought occurred to her mistress too, no doubt, for her voice hardened.

"Try me," she said. "Understand well, you must tell—if not here, then before an officer of the police."

"Oh, no, no!" screamed Julie, sitting suddenly erect. "Never that! I could not bear that! Madame would not be so cruel!"

"Then tell us now!" said the veiled lady, inexorably.

"Very well, madame!" cried the girl, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, and speaking in a mixture of French and English which I shall not attempt to transcribe. "I will tell; I will tell everything. After all, I was not to blame. It was that creature. I did not love him—but I feared him. He possessed a power over me. He could make me do anything. He even beat me! And still I went back to him!"

"What was his name?" asked the veiled lady.

"Georges Drouet—he lived in the Rue de la Huchette, just off the Rue Saint Jacques—on the top floor, under the gutters. He was bad—bad; —he lived off women. I met him six months ago. He knew how to fascinate one; I thought he loved me. Then he began to borrow money from me, until he had taken all that I had saved; then my rings —every one!" She held up her hands to show their bareness. "Then...."

She stopped and glanced at her mistress.

"Continue!" said the latter. "Tell what you have to tell."

"I knew that madame also...."

She stopped again. I walked over to the window and stood staring at the wooden shutter, strangely moved.

"Well, why not?" she demanded fiercely, and I felt that she was addressing my turned back. "Why not? Shall a woman not be loved? Shall a woman endure what madame endured...."

"That will do, Julie," broke in the veiled lady, her voice cold as ice. "Tell your story."

"I knew of the secret drawer; I had seen madame open it; I knew what it contained. But I was faithful to madame; I loved her; I was glad that she had found some one.... Madame will remember her despair, her horror, when she entered her room to find the cabinet gone, taken away, sold by that.... I, too, was in despair—I desired with my whole soul to help madame. That night I had a rendezvous with him," and she nodded toward the photograph which lay upon the floor. "I told him."

Her mistress stood as though turned to stone. I could guess her anguish and humiliation.

"He questioned me—he learned everything—the drawer, how it was opened—all. But I did not suspect what was in his mind—not for an instant did I suspect. But on the boat I saw him, and then I knew. Well, he has got what he deserved!"

She shivered and pressed her hands against her eyes.

"I think that is all, madame," she added, hoarsely.

"It is all of that story," said Godfrey, in a crisp voice; "but there is another."

"Another?" echoed the veiled lady, looking at him.

"Ask her, madame, for what purpose she called at this house, night before last, and saw Philip Vantine in this room."

"I did not!" shrieked the girl, her face ablaze. "It is a lie!"

"She does not need to tell!" went on Godfrey inexorably. "Any fool could guess. She came for the letters! She had resolved herself to blackmail you, madame!"

"It is a lie!" shrieked the girl again. "I came hoping to save her —to...."

A storm of angry sobbing choked her.

I could see how the veiled lady was trembling. I placed a chair for her, and she sank into it with a murmur of thanks.

"Besides, we have a witness to her visit," added Godfrey. "Shall I call the police, madame?"

"No, no!" and the girl sat upright again, her face ghastly. "I will tell. I will tell all. Give me but a moment!"

She sat there, struggling for self-control, her streaked and grotesque countenance contorted with emotion. Then I saw her eyes widen, and, glancing around, I saw that Rogers had dragged himself to a sitting posture, and was staring at her, his face livid.

The sight of him seemed to madden her.

"It was you!" she shrieked, and shook her clenched fist at him. "It was you who told! Coward! Coward!"

But Godfrey, his face very grim, laid a heavy hand upon her arm.

"Be still!" he cried. "He told us nothing! He tried to shield you —though why he should wish to do so...."

Rogers broke in with a hollow and ghastly laugh.

"It was natural enough, sir," he said hoarsely. "She's my wife!"



CHAPTER XVI

PHILIP VANTINE'S CALLER

It was a sordid story that Rogers gasped out to us; and, as it concerns this tale only incidentally, I shall pass over it as briefly as may be.

Eight or ten years before, the fair Julie—at least, she was fairer then than now!—had come to New York to enter the employ of a family whose mistress had decided that life without a French maid was unendurable. Rogers had met her, had been fascinated by her black eyes and red lips, had, in the end, proposed honourable marriage —quite unnecessarily, no doubt!—had been accepted, and for some months had led an eventful existence as the husband of the siren. Then, one morning, he awakened to find her gone.

He had, of course, entrusted his savings to her—that had been one condition of the marriage!—and the savings were gone, also. Julie, it seems, had been overcome with longing for the Paris asphalt; no doubt, too, she had found herself ennuied by the lack of romance in married life with Rogers; and she had flown back to France. Rogers had thought of following; but, appalled at the difficulty of finding her in Paris, not knowing what he should do if he did find her, he had finally given it up, and had settled gloomily down to live upon his memories. Some sort of affection for her had kept alive within him, and when he opened the door of Vantine's house and found her standing on the steps, he was as wax in her hands.

Julie had listened to all this indifferently, even disdainfully, without denying anything, nor seeking to excuse herself. Perhaps the idea that she needed excuse did not occur to her. And when the story was finished, she was quite herself again; even a little proud, I think, of holding the centre of the stage in the role of siren. It was almost a rejuvenescence, and there was gratitude in the gaze she turned on Rogers.

"This is all true, I suppose?" asked the veiled lady.

"All quite true, madame," answered Julie, with a shrug. "I was younger then and the love of excitement was too strong for me. I am older now, and have more sense—besides, I am no longer sought after as I was."

"And so," said madame, with irony, "you are now, no doubt, willing to return to your husband."

"I have been considering it, madame," replied Julie, with astounding simplicity, "ever since I saw him here the other evening, and learned that he still cared for me. One must have a harbour in one's old age."

I glanced at Rogers and was astonished to see that he was regarding the woman with affectionate admiration. Evidently the harbour was waiting, should Julie choose to anchor there.

"I have hesitated," she added, "only because of madame. Where would madame get another maid such as I? No one but I can arrange her hair —no one but I can prepare her bath...."

"We will discuss it," said the veiled lady, "when we are alone. And now, perhaps, you will be so good as to tell us of your previous visit here."

"Very well, madame," and Julie settled into a more comfortable posture. "It was one day on the boat as I was looking down at the passengers of the third class that I perceived Georges—M. Drouet —strolling about. I was bouleversee—what you call upset with amazement, and then he looked up and our eyes met, and he came beneath me and commanded that I meet him that evening. It was then that I learned his plan. It was to secure those letters for himself and to dispose of them."

"To whom?" asked Godfrey.

"To the person that would pay the greatest price for them, most certainly," answered Julie, surprised that it should have been thought necessary to ask such a question. "They were to be offered first to madame at ten thousand francs each; should she refuse, they were then to be offered to M. le Duc—he would surely desire to possess them!"

The veiled lady shivered a little, and her hand instinctively sought her bosom to assure herself that the precious packet was safe.

"That night," continued Julie, "in my cabin, I tossed and tossed, trying to discover a way to prevent this; for I had seen long since that M. Drouet no longer cared for me—I knew that it was upon some other woman that money would be spent. I decided that, at the first moment, I would hasten to this house; I would explain the matter to M. Vantine, I would persuade him to restore to me the letters, with which I would fly to madame. I knew, also, that I could rely upon her gratitude," added the girl. "After all, one must provide for oneself."

She paused and glanced around the room, smiling at the interest in our faces.

"You have at least one virtue—that of frankness," said the veiled lady. "Continue."

"It was not until evening that I found an opportunity to leave madame," Julie went on. "I hastened here; I rang the bell; but I confess I should have failed, I should not have secured an entrance, if it had not been that it was my husband who opened the door to me. Even after I was inside the door, he refused to permit me to see his master; but as we were debating together, M. Vantine himself came into the hall, and I ran to him and begged that he hear me. It was then that he invited me to enter this room."

She paused again, and a little shiver of expectancy ran through me. At last we were to learn how Philip Vantine had met his death!

"I sat down," continued Julie. "I told him the story from the very beginning. He listened with much interest; but when I proposed that he should restore to me the letters, he hesitated. He walked up and down the room, trying to decide; then he took me through that door into the room beyond. The cabinet was standing in the centre of the floor, and all the lights were blazing.

"'Is that the cabinet?' he asked me, and when I said that most assuredly it was, he seemed surprised.

"'It is an easy thing to prove,' I said, and I went to the cabinet and pressed on the three springs, as I had seen madame do. The little handle at the side fell out, but suddenly he stopped me.

"'Yes, it is the cabinet,' he said. 'I see that. And no doubt the drawer contains the letters, as you say. But those letters do not belong to you. They belong to your mistress. I cannot permit that you take them away, for, after all, I do not know you. You may intend to make some bad use of them.'

"I protested that such a suspicion was most unjust, that my character was of the best, that I was devoted to my mistress and desired to protect her. He listened, but he was not convinced. In the end, he brought me back into this room. I could have cried with rage!

"'Return to your mistress,' he said, 'and inform her that I shall be most happy to return the letters to her. But it must be in her own hands that I place them. The letters are here, whenever it pleases her to claim them."

"I saw that it was of no use to argue further; he was of adamant. So I left the house, he himself opening the door for me. And that is all that I know, madame."

There was a moment's silence; then I heard Godfrey draw a deep breath. I could see that, like myself, he was convinced that the girl was telling the truth.

"Of course," he suggested gently, "as soon as you reached home you related to your mistress what had occurred?"

Julie grew a little crimson.

"No, monsieur," she said, "I told her nothing."

"I should have thought you would have wished to prove your devotion," went on Godfrey, in his sweetest tone.

"I feared that, without the letters, she would misunderstand my motives," said Julie, sullenly.

"And then, of course, without the letters, there would be no reward," Godfrey supplemented.

Julie did not reply, but she looked very uncomfortable.

The veiled lady rose.

"Have you any further questions to ask her?" she said.

"No, madame," said Godfrey. "The story is complete."

Julie resumed her veil, shooting at Godfrey a glance anything but friendly. The veiled lady turned to me and held out her hand.

"I thank you, Mr. Lester, for your kindness," she said. "Come, Julie," and she moved toward the door, which Rogers hastened to open.

Mr. Hornblower nodded and passed out after them, and Godfrey and I were left alone together.

We both sat down, and for a moment neither of us spoke.

"Well!" said Godfrey, at last. "Well! what a story it would make! And I can't use it! It's a bitter reflection, Lester!"

"It would certainly shake the pillars of society," I agreed. "I'm rather shaken myself."

"So am I! I was all at sea for a while—I was dumb with astonishment when I heard you and the veiled lady talking about the secret drawer —I could see you laughing at me! I don't know the whole story yet. How did she happen to come to you?"

I told him of Hornblower's visit, of the story he told me, and of the arrangement we had made. Godfrey nodded thoughtfully when I had finished.

"The story is straight, of course," he said. "Hornblower would not be engaged in anything tricky. Besides, I recognised the lady. I suppose you did, too."

"Yes, I have seen pictures of her. And I admired her for putting back her veil."

"So did I. She has changed since the day of her wedding, Lester—she was a smooth-faced girl, then! Three years of life with her duke have left their mark on her!"

He fell silent, staring thoughtfully at the carpet. Then he shook himself.

"And the maid's story was most interesting," he added. "Nevertheless, there are still a number of things which are not quite clear to me."

"There is one thing I don't understand, myself," I said. "I hadn't any idea this was the right cabinet. I didn't see how it could be."

"That's it, exactly. How did it happen, when the veiled lady went to Armand & Son in Paris, that she was directed to Philip Vantine? According to his own story, he did not purchase this cabinet; he had never seen it before; it was presumably shipped him by mistake; Armand & Son cable you that it was a mistake; and yet they cite Vantine as the purchaser. There is something twisted somewhere, Lester; just where I'll try to find out."

"Which reminds me that Armand's representative hasn't been around yet. No doubt he can straighten the matter out."

"It won't do any harm to hear his story, anyway," Godfrey agreed. "Now let's have a look at that drawer."

It was standing open as we had left it, and Godfrey pushed it back into place, called my attention to the cunning way in which its outline was concealed by the inlay about it. Then he worked the spring, the handle fell into place, and he drew the drawer out again, as far as it would come, and examined it carefully.

"The fellow who devised that was a genius," he said, admiringly, pushing it back into place. "I wonder what its contents have been from the days of Madame de Montespan down to the present? Love letters, mostly, I suppose, since they are the things which need concealment most. Don't you wish this drawer could tell its secrets, Lester?"

"There is one I wish it would tell, if it knows it," I said. "I wish it would tell who killed Philip Vantine. I suppose you will agree with me that our pretty theory has got a knock-out blow, this time."

"It looks that way, doesn't it?"

"There is no poisoned mechanism about that drawer—that's sure," I added.

"No, and never has been," Godfrey agreed.

"And that leaves us all at sea, doesn't it? It leaves the whole affair more mysterious than ever. I can't understand it," and I sat down in my bewilderment and rubbed my head. I really felt for an instant as though I had gone mentally blind. "There is one thing sure," I added. "The killing, whatever its cause, was done out there in the ante-room, not in here."

"What makes you think that?"

"We believe that Drouet came here to get Vantine's permission to open this drawer and get the letters, no doubt representing himself as the agent of their owner."

"I think it's a pretty good guess," said Godfrey, pensively.

"Our theory was that, after being shown into the ante-room, he discovered the cabinet, tried to open the drawer, and was killed in the attempt. But it is evident enough now that there is nothing about that drawer to hurt any one."

"Yes, that's evident, I think," Godfrey agreed.

"If he had opened the drawer, then, he would have taken the letters, since there was nothing to prevent him. Since they were not taken, it follows, doesn't it, that he was killed before he had a chance at the drawer? Perhaps he never saw the cabinet. He must have been killed out there in the ante-room, a few minutes after Parks left."

"And how about Vantine?" Godfrey asked.

"I don't know," I said, helplessly. "He didn't want the letters—if he opened the drawer at all, it was merely out of curiosity to see how it worked. Only, of course, the same agency that killed Drouet, killed him. Yes—and now that I think of it, it's certain he didn't open the drawer, either."

"How do you know it's certain?"

"If he had opened the drawer," I pointed out, "and been killed in the act of opening it, it would have been found open. I had thought that perhaps it closed of itself, but you see that it does not. You have to push it shut, and then snap the handle up into place."

"That's true," Godfrey assented, "and it sounds pretty conclusive. If it is true of Vantine, it is also true of Drouet. The inference is, then, that neither of them opened the drawer. Well, what follows?"

"I don't know," I said helplessly. "Nothing seems to follow."

"There is an alternative," Godfrey suggested.

"What is it?" I demanded.

"The hand that killed Drouet and Vantine may also have closed the drawer," said Godfrey, and looked at me.

"And left the letters in it?" I questioned. "Surely not!"

He glanced at the shuttered window, and I understood to whom he thought that hand belonged.

"Besides," I protested, "how would he get in? How would he get away? What was he after, if he left the letters behind?" Then I rose wearily. "I must be getting back to the office," I said. "This is Saturday, and we close at two. Are you coming?"

"No," he answered; "if you don't mind, I'll sit here a while longer and think things over, Lester. Perhaps I'll blunder on to the truth yet!"



CHAPTER XVII

ENTER M. ARMAND

I got back to the office to find that M. Felix Armand, of Armand et Fils, had called, and, finding me out, had left his card with the pencilled memorandum that he would call again Monday morning. There was another caller, who had awaited my return—a tall, angular man, with a long moustache, who introduced himself as Simon W. Morgan, of Osage City, Iowa.

"Poor Philip Vantine's nearest living relative, sir," he added. "I came as soon as possible."

"It was very good of you," I said. "The funeral will be at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, from the house."

"You had a telegram from me?"

"Yes," I answered.

He hitched about in his chair uneasily for a moment. I knew what he wanted to say, but saw no reason to help him.

"He left a will, I suppose?" he asked, at last.

"Oh, yes; we have arranged to probate it Monday. You can examine it then, if you wish."

"Have you examined it?"

"I am familiar with its provisions. It was drawn here in the office."

He was pulling furiously at his moustache.

"Cousin Philip was a very wealthy man, I understand," he managed to say.

"Comparatively wealthy. He had securities worth about a million and a quarter, besides a number of pieces of real property—and, of course, the house he lived in. He owned a very valuable collection of art objects—pictures, furniture, tapestries, and such things; but what they are worth will probably never be known."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because he left them all to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Outside of a few legacies to old servants, he left his whole fortune to the same institution."

I put it rather brutally, no doubt, but I was anxious to end the interview.

Mr. Morgan's face grew very red.

"He did!" he ejaculated. "Ha—well, I have heard he was rather crazy."

"He was as sane as any man I ever knew," I retorted drily. And then I remembered the doubts which had assailed me that last day, when Vantine was fingering the Boule cabinet. But I kept those doubts to myself.

"Ha—we'll have to see about that!" said my visitor, threateningly.

"By all means, Mr. Morgan," I assented heartily. "If you have any doubt about it, you should certainly look into it. And now, if you will pardon me, I have many things to do, and we close early to-day."

He got to his feet and went slowly out; and that was the last I ever saw of him. I suppose he consulted an attorney, learned the hopeless nature of his case, and took the first train back to Osage City. He did not even wait for the funeral.

Few people, indeed, put themselves out for it. There was a sprinkling of old family friends, representatives of the museum and of various charities in which Vantine had been interested, a few friends of his own, and that was all. He had dropped out of the world with scarcely a ripple; of all who had known him, I dare say Parks felt his departure most. For Vantine had been, in a sense, a solitary man; not many men nodded oftener during a walk up the Avenue, and yet not many dined oftener alone; for there was about him a certain self-detachment which discouraged intimacy. He was a man, like many another, with acquaintances in every country on the globe, and friends in none.

All this I thought over a little sadly, as I sat at home that night; and not without some self-questioning as to my own place in the world. Most of us, I think, are a little saddened when we realise our unimportance; most of us, no doubt, would be a little shocked could we return a day or two after our death and see how merrily the world wags on! I would be missed, I knew, scarcely more than Vantine. It was not a pleasant thought, for it seemed to argue some deficiency in myself.

Then, too, the mystery of Vantine's death had a depressing effect upon me. So long as there seemed some theory to build on, so long as there was a ray of light ahead, I had hoped that the tragedy would be explained and expiated; but now my theory had crumbled to pieces; I was left in utter darkness, from which there seemed no way out. Never before, in the face of any mystery, had I felt so blind and helpless, and the feeling took such a grip upon me that it kept me awake for a long time after I got to bed. It seemed, in some mysterious way, that I was contending with a power greater than myself, a power threatening and awful, which could crush me with a turn of the wrist.

Vantine's will was probated next morning. He had directed that his collection of art objects be removed to the museum, and that the house and such portion of its contents as the museum did not care for be sold for the museum's benefit. I had already notified Sir Caspar Purdon Clarke of the terms of the will, and the museum's attorney was present when it was read. He stated that he had been requested to ask me to remain in charge of things for a week or two, until arrangements for the removal could be made. It would also be necessary to make an inventory of Vantine's collection, and the assistant director of the museum was to get this under way at once.

I acquiesced in all these arrangements, but I was feeling decidedly blue when I started back to the office. Vantine's collection had always seemed to me somehow a part of himself; more especially a part of the house in which it had been assembled. It would lose much of its beauty and significance ticketed and arranged stiffly along the walls of the museum, and the thought came to me that it would be a splendid thing for New York if this old house and its contents could be kept intact as an object lesson to the nervous and hurrying younger generation of the easier and more finished manner of life of the older one; something after the fashion that the beautiful old Plantin-Moretus mansion at Antwerp is a rebuke to those present-day publishers who reckon literature a commodity, along with soap and cheese.

That, of course, it would be impossible to do; the last barrier to the commercial invasion of the Avenue would be removed; that heroic rear-guard of the old order of things would be destroyed; in a year or two, a monster of steel and stone would rise on the spot where three generations of Vantines had lived their lives; and the collection, so unified and coherent, to which the last Vantine had devoted his life, would be merged and lost in the vast collections of the museum. It was a sad ending.

"Gentleman to see you, sir," said the office-boy, as I sat down at my desk, and a moment later, M. Felix Armand was shown in to me.

I have only to close my eyes to call again before me that striking personality, for Felix Armand was one of the most extraordinary men I ever had the pleasure of meeting. Ruddy-faced, bright-eyed, with dark full beard and waving hair almost jet black—hair that crinkled about his ears in a way that I can describe by no other word than fascinating—he gave the impression of tremendous strength and virility. There was about him, too, an air of culture not to be mistaken; the air of a man who had travelled much, seen much, and mixed with many people, high and low; the air of a man at home anywhere, in any society. It is impossible for me, by mere words, to convey any adequate idea of his vivid personality; but I confess that, from the first moment, I was both impressed and charmed by him. And I am still impressed; more, perhaps, than at first, now that I know the whole story—but you shall hear.

"I speak English very badly, sir," he said, as he sat down. "If you speak French...."

"Not half so well as you speak English," I laughed. "I can tell that from your first sentence."

"In that event, I will do the best that I can," he said, smiling, "and you must pardon my blunders. First, Mr. Lester, on behalf of Armand et Fils, I must ask your pardon for this mistake, so inexcusable."

"It was a mistake, then?" I asked.

"One most embarrassing to us. We can not find for it an explanation. Believe me, Mr. Lester, it is not our habit to make mistakes; we have a reputation of which we are very proud; but the cabinet which was purchased by Mr. Vantine remained in our warehouse, and this other one was boxed and shipped to him. We are investigating most rigidly."

"Then Mr. Vantine's cabinet is still in Paris?"

"No, Mr. Lester; the error was discovered some days ago and the cabinet belonging to Mr. Vantine was shipped to me here. It should arrive next Wednesday on La Provence. I shall myself receive it, and deliver it to Mr. Vantine."

"Mr. Vantine is dead," I said. "You did not know?"

He sat staring at me for a moment, as though unable to comprehend.

"Did I understand that you said Mr. Vantine is dead?" he stammered.

I told him briefly as much as I knew of the tragedy, while he sat regarding me with an air of stupefaction.

"It is curious you saw nothing of it in the papers," I added. "They were full of it."

"I have been visiting friends at Quebec," he explained, "It was there that the message from our house found me, commanding me to hasten here. I started at once, and reached this city Saturday. I drove here directly from the station, but was so unfortunate as to miss you."

"I am sorry to have caused you so much trouble," I said.

"But, my dear Mr. Lester," he protested, "it is for us to take trouble. A blunder of this sort we feel as a disgrace. My father, who is of the old school, is most upset concerning it. But this death of Mr. Vantine—it is a great blow to me. I have met him many times. He was a real connoisseur—we have lost one of our most valued patrons. You say that he was found dead in a room at his house?"

"Yes, and death resulted from a small wound on the hand, into which some very powerful poison had been injected."

"That is most curious. In what manner was such a wound made?"

"That we don't know. I had a theory...."

"Yes?" he questioned, his eyes gleaming with interest.

"A few hours previously, another man had been found in the same room, killed in the same way."

"Another man?"

"A stranger who had called to see Mr. Vantine. My theory was that both this stranger and Mr. Vantine had been killed while trying to open a secret drawer in the Boule cabinet. Do you know anything of the history of that cabinet, Monsieur Armand?"

"We believe it to have been made for Madame de Montespan by Monsieur Boule himself," he answered. "It is the original of one now in the Louvre which is known to have belonged to the Grand Louis."

"That was Mr. Vantine's belief," I said. "Why he should have arrived at that conclusion, I don't know—"

"Mr. Vantine was a connoisseur," said M. Armand, quietly. "There are certain indications which no connoisseur could mistake."

"It was his guess at the history of the cabinet," I explained, "which gave me the basis for my theory. A cabinet belonging to Madame de Montespan would, of course, have a secret drawer; and, since it was made in the days of de Brinvilliers and La Voisin, what more natural than that it should be guarded by a poisoned mechanism?"

"What more natural, indeed!" breathed my companion, and I fancied that he looked at me with a new interest in his eyes. "It is good reasoning, Mr. Lester."

"It seemed to explain a situation for which no other explanation has been found," I said. "And it had also the merit of picturesqueness."

"It is unique," he agreed eagerly, his eyes burning like two coals of fire, so intense was his interest. "I have been from boyhood," he added, noticing my glance, "a lover of tales of mystery. They have for me a fascination I cannot explain; there is in my blood something that responds to them. I feel sometimes that I would have made a great detective—or a great criminal. Instead of which, I am merely a dealer in curios. You can understand how I am fascinated by a story so outre as this."

"Perhaps you can assist us," I suggested, "for that theory of mine has been completely disproved."

"Disproved? In what way?" he demanded.

"The secret drawer has been found...."

"Comment?" he cried, his voice sharp with surprise. "Found? The secret drawer has been found?"

"Yes, and there was no poisoned mechanism guarding it."

He breathed deeply for an instant; then he pulled himself together with a little laugh.

"Really," he said, "I must not indulge myself in this way. It is a kind of intoxication. But you say that the drawer was found and that there was no poison? Was the drawer empty?"

"No, there was a packet of letters in it."

"Delicious! Love letters, of a certainty! Billets-doux from the great Louis to the Montespan, perhaps?"

"No, unfortunately they were of a much more recent date. They have been restored to their owner. I hope that you agree with me that that was the right thing to do?"

He sat for a moment regarding me narrowly, and I had an uneasy feeling that, since he undoubtedly knew of whom the cabinet had been purchased, he was reconstructing the story more completely than I would have wished him to do.

"Since the letters have been returned," he said, at last, a little drily, "it is useless to discuss the matter. But no doubt I should approve if all the circumstances were known to me. Especially if it was to assist a lady."

"It was," I said, and I saw from his face that he understood.

"Then you did well," he said. "Has no other explanation been found for the death of Mr. Vantine and of this stranger?"

"I think not. The coroner will hold his inquest to-morrow. He has deferred it in the hope that some new evidence would be discovered."

"And none has been discovered?"

"I have heard of none."

"You do not even know who this stranger was?"

"Oh, yes, we have discovered that. He was a worthless fellow named Drouet."

"A Frenchman?"

"Yes, living in an attic in the Rue de la Huchette, at Paris."

M. Armand had been gazing at me intently, but now his look relaxed, and I fancied that he drew a deep breath as a man might do when relieved of a burden. At the back of my brain a vague and shadowy suspicion began to form—a suspicion that perhaps M. Armand knew more of this affair than he had as yet acknowledged.

"You did not, by any chance, know him?" I asked carelessly.

"No, I think not. But there is one thing I do not understand, Mr. Lester, and you will pardon me if I am indiscreet. But I do not understand what this Drouet, as you call him, was doing in the house of Mr. Vantine."

"He was trying to get possession of the letters," I said.

"Oh, so it was that!" and my companion nodded. "And in trying to get those letters, he was killed?"

"Yes, but what none of us understands, M. Armand, is how he was killed. Who or what killed him? How was that poison administered? Can you suggest an explanation?"

He sat for a moment staring thoughtfully out of the window.

"It is a nice problem," he said, "a most interesting one. I will think it over, Mr. Lester. Perhaps I may be able to make a suggestion. I do not know. But, in any event, I shall see you again Wednesday. If it is agreeable to you, we can meet at the house of Mr. Vantine and exchange the cabinets."

"At what time?"

"I do not know with exactness. There may be some delay in getting the cabinet from the ship. Perhaps it would be better if I called for you?"

"Very well," I assented.

"Permit me to express again my apologies that such a mistake should have been made by us. Really, we are most careful; but even we sometimes suffer from careless servants. It desolates me to think that I cannot offer these apologies to Mr. Vantine in person. Till Wednesday, then, Mr. Lester."

"Till Wednesday," I echoed, and watched his erect and perfectly-garbed figure until it vanished through the doorway. A fascinating man, I told myself as I turned back to my desk, and one whom I should like to know more intimately; a man with a hobby for the mysteries of crime, with which I could fully sympathise; and I smiled as I thought of the burning interest with which he had listened to the story of the double tragedy. How naively he had confessed his thought that he would have made a great detective—or a great criminal; and here he was only a dealer in curios. Well, I had had the same thought, more than once—and here was I, merely a not-too-successful lawyer. Decidedly, M. Armand and myself had much in common!



CHAPTER XVIII

I PART WITH THE BOULE CABINET

The coroner's inquest was held next day, and my surmise proved to be correct. The police had discovered practically no new evidence; none, certainly, which shed any light on the way in which Drouet and Philip Vantine had met death. Each of the witnesses told his story much as I have told it here, and it was evident that the jury was bewildered by the seemingly inextricable tangle of circumstances.

To my relief, Drouet's identity was established without any help from me. The bag which he had left on the pier had been opened at the request of the police and a card-case found with his address on it. Why he had sent in to Vantine a card not his own, and what his business with Vantine had been, were details concerning which the police could offer no theory, and which I did not feel called upon to explain, since neither in any way made clearer the mystery of his death.

An amusing incident of the inquest was the attempt made by Goldberger to heckle Godfrey, evidently at Grady's suggestion.

"On the morning after the tragedy," Goldberger began sweetly, "you printed in the Record a photograph which you claimed to be that of the woman who had called upon Mr. Vantine the night before, and who was, presumably, the last person to see him alive. Where did you get that photograph?"

"It was a copy of one which Drouet carried in his watch-case," answered Godfrey.

"Since then," pursued Goldberger, "you have made no further reference to that feature of the case. I presume you found out that you were mistaken?"

"On the contrary, I proved that I was correct."

Goldberger's face reddened, and his look was not pleasant.

"'Prove' is rather a strong word, isn't it?" he asked.

"It is the right word."

"What was the woman's connection with the man Drouet?"

"She had been his mistress."

"You say that very confidently," said Goldberger, his lips curling. "After all, it is merely a guess, isn't it?"

"I have reason to say it confidently," retorted Godfrey quietly, "since the woman confessed as much in my presence."

Again Goldberger reddened.

"I suppose she also confessed that it was really she who called upon Mr. Vantine?" he sneered.

"She not only confessed that," said Godfrey, still more quietly, "but she told in detail what occurred during that visit."

"The confession was made to yourself alone, of course?" queried Goldberger, in a tone deliberately insulting.

Godfrey flushed a little at the words, but managed to retain his self-control.

"Not at all," he said. "It was made in the presence of Mr. Lester and of another distinguished lawyer whose name I am not at liberty to reveal."

Goldberger swallowed hard, as though he had received a slap in the face. I dare say, he felt as though he had!

"This woman is in New York?" he asked.

"I believe so."

"What is her name and address?"

"I am not at liberty to answer."

Goldberger glared at him.

"You will answer," he thundered, "or I'll commit you for contempt!"

Godfrey was quite himself again.

"Very well," he said, smiling. "I have not the slightest objection. But I would think it over, if I were you. Mr. Lester will assure you that the woman was in no way connected with the death either of Drouet or of Mr. Vantine."

Goldberger did think it over; he realised the danger of trying to punish a paper so powerful as the Record, and he finally decided to accept Godfrey's statement as a mitigation of his refusal to answer.

"That is only one of the details which Commissioner Grady has missed," Godfrey added, pleasantly.

"That will do," Goldberger broke in, and Godfrey left the stand.

I was recalled to confirm his story. I, also, of course, refused to give the woman's name, explaining to Goldberger that I had learned it professionally, that I was certain she had been guilty of no crime, and that to reveal it would seriously embarrass an entirely innocent woman. With that statement, the coroner was compelled to appear satisfied.

Grady did not go on the stand; he was not even at the inquest. In fact, since the first day, he had not appeared publicly in connection with the case at all; and I had surmised that he did not care to be identified with a mystery which there seemed to be no prospect of solving, and from which no glory was to be won. The case had been placed in Simmonds's hands, and it was he who testified on behalf of the police, admitting candidly that they were all at sea. He had made a careful examination of the Vantine house, he said, particularly of the room in which the bodies had been found, and had discovered absolutely nothing in the shape of a clue to the solution of the mystery. There was something diabolical about it; something almost supernatural. He had not abandoned hope, and was still working on the case; but he was inclined to think that, if the mystery was ever solved, it would be only by some lucky accident or through the confession of the guilty man.

Goldberger was annoyed; that was evident enough from the nervous way in which he gnawed his moustache; but he had no theory any more than the police; there was not a scintilla of evidence to fasten the crime upon any one; and the end of the hearing was that the jury brought in a verdict that Philip Vantine and Georges Drouet had died from the effects of a poison administered by a person or persons unknown.

Godfrey joined me at the door as I was leaving, and we went down the steps together.

"I was glad to hear Simmonds confess that the police are up a tree," he said. "Of course, Grady is trying to sneak out of it, and blame some one else for the failure—but I'll see that he doesn't succeed. I'll see, anyway, that Simmonds gets a square deal—he's an old friend of mine, you know."

"Yes," I said, "I know; but we're all up a tree, aren't we?"

"For the present," laughed Godfrey, "we do occupy that undignified position. But you don't expect to stay there forever, do you, Lester?"

"Since my theory about the Boule cabinet exploded," I said, "I have given up hope. By the way, I'm going to turn the cabinet over to its owner to-morrow."

"To its owner?" he repeated, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, I thought he'd be around for it, though I hardly thought he'd come so soon. Who does it happen to be, Lester?"

"Why," I said, a little impatiently, "you know as well as I do that it belongs to Armand & Son."

"You've seen their representative, then?" he queried, a little flush of excitement which I could not understand spreading over his face.

"He came to see me yesterday. I'd like you to meet him, Godfrey. He is Felix Armand, the 'son' of the firm, and one of the most finished gentlemen I ever met."

"I'd like to meet him," said Godfrey, smiling queerly. "Perhaps I shall, some day; I hope so, anyway. But how did he explain the blunder, Lester?"

"In some way, they shipped the wrong cabinet to Vantine. The right one will get here on La Provence to-morrow," and I told him in detail the story which Felix Armand had told me. "He was quite upset over it," I added, "His apologies were almost abject."

Godfrey listened intently to all this, and he nodded with satisfaction when I had finished.

"It is all most interesting," he commented.

"Did M. Armand happen to mention where he is staying?"

"No, but he won't be hard to find, if you want to see him. He's at one of the big hotels, of course—probably the Plaza or the St. Regis. He's too great a swell for any minor hostelry."

"What time do you expect him to-morrow?"

"Sometime in the afternoon. He's to call for me as soon as he gets Vantine's cabinet off the boat. Godfrey," I added, "I felt yesterday when I was talking with him that perhaps he knew more about this affair than he would admit. I could see that he guessed in an instant who the owner of the letters was, and what they contained. Do you think I ought to hold on to the cabinet a while longer? I could invent some pretext for delay, easily enough."

"Why, no; let him have his cabinet," said Godfrey, with an alacrity that surprised me. "If your theory about it has been exploded, what's the use of hanging on to it?"

"I don't see any use in doing so," I admitted, "but I thought perhaps you might want more time to examine it."

"I've examined it all I'm going to," Godfrey answered, and I told myself that this was the first time I had ever known him to admit himself defeated.

"I have a sort of feeling," I explained, "that when we let go of the cabinet, we give up the only clue we have to this whole affair. It is like a confession of defeat."

"Oh, no, it isn't," Godfrey objected. "If there is nothing more to be learned from the cabinet, there is no reason to retain it. I should certainly let M. Armand have it. Perhaps I'll see you to-morrow," he added, and we parted at the corner.

But I did not see him on the morrow. I was rather expecting a call from him during the morning, and when none came, I was certain I should find him awaiting me when I arrived at the Vantine house, in company with M. Armand. But he was not there, and when I asked for him, Parks told me that he had not seen him since the day before.

I confess that Godfrey's indifference to the fate of the cabinet surprised me greatly; besides, I was hoping that he would wish to meet the fascinating Frenchman. More fascinating, if possible, than he had been on Monday, and I soon found myself completely under his spell. There had been less delay than he had anticipated in getting the cabinet off the boat and through the customs, and it was not yet three o'clock when we reached the Vantine house.

"I haven't seen Mr. Godfrey," Parks repeated, "but there's others here as it fair breaks my heart to see."

He motioned toward the door of the music-room, and, stepping to it, I saw that the inventory was already in progress. The man in charge of it nodded to me, but I did not go in, for the sight was anything but a pleasant one.

"The cabinet is in the room across the hall," I said to M. Armand, and led the way through the ante-room into the room beyond.

Parks switched on the lights for us, and my companion glanced with surprise at the heavy shutters covering the windows.

"We put those up for a protection," I explained. "We had an idea that some one would try to enter. In fact, one evening we did find a wire connecting with the burglar-alarm cut, and, later on, saw some one peering in through the hole in that shutter yonder."

"You did?" M. Armand queried quickly.

"Would you recognise the man, if you were to meet him again?"

"Oh, no; you see the hole is quite small. There was nothing visible except a pair of eyes. Yet I might know them again, for I never before saw such eyes—so bright, so burning. It was the night that Godfrey and I were trying to find the secret drawer, and those eyes gleamed like fire as they watched us."

M. Armand was gazing at the cabinet, apparently only half listening.

"Ah, yes, the secret drawer," he said. "Will you show me how it is operated, Mr. Lester? I am most curious about it."

I placed my hand upon the table and pressed the three points which the veiled lady had shown us. The first time, I got the order wrong, but at the second trial, the little handle fell forward with a click, and I pulled the drawer open.

"There it is," I said. "You see how cleverly it is constructed. And how well it is concealed. No one would suspect its existence."

He examined it with much interest; pushed it back into place, and then opened it himself.

"Very clever indeed," he agreed. "I have never seen another so well concealed. And the idea of opening it only by a certain combination is most happy and original. Most secret drawers are secret only in name; a slight search reveals them; but this one...."

He pushed it shut again, and examined the inlay around it.

"My friend and I went over the cabinet very carefully and could not find it," I said.

"Your friend—I think you mentioned his name?"

"Yes—his name is Godfrey."

"A man of the law, like yourself?"

"Oh, no, a newspaper man. But he had been a member of the detective force before that. He is extraordinarily keen, and if anybody could have found that drawer, he could. But that combination was too much for him."

M. Armand snapped the drawer back into place with a little crash.

"I am glad, at any rate, that it was discovered," he said. "I will not conceal from you, Mr. Lester, that it adds not a little to the value of the cabinet."

"What is its value?" I asked. "Mr. Vantine wanted me to buy it for him, and named a most extravagant figure as the limit he was willing to pay."

"Really," M. Armand answered, after an instant's hesitation, "I would not care to name a figure, Mr. Lester, without further consultation with my father. The cabinet is quite unique—the most beautiful, perhaps, that M. Boule ever produced. Did you discover Madame de Montespan's monogram?"

"No. Mr. Vantine said he was sure it existed; but Godfrey and I did not look for it."

M. Armand opened the doors which concealed the central drawers.

"Voila!" he said, and traced with his finger the arabesque just under the pediment. "See how cunningly it has been blended with the other figures. And here is the emblem of the giver." He pointed to a tiny golden sun with radiating rays on the base of the pediment, just above the monogram. "Le roi soleil!"

" Le roi soleil!" I repeated. "Of course. We were stupid not to have discerned it. That tells the whole story, doesn't it? What is it, Parks?" I added, as that worthy appeared at the door.

"There's a van outside, sir," he said, "and a couple of men are unloading a piece of furniture. Is it all right, sir?"

"Yes," I answered. "Have them bring it in here. And ask the man in charge of the inventory to step over here a minute. Mr. Vantine left his collection of art objects to the Metropolitan Museum," I explained to M. Armand, "and I should like the representative of the museum to be present when the exchange is made."

"Certainly," he assented. "That is very just."

Parks was back in a moment, piloting two men who carried between them an object swathed in burlap, and the Metropolitan man followed them in.

"I am Mr. Lester," I said to him, "Mr. Vantine's executor; and this is M. Felix Armand, of Armand & Son, of Paris. We are correcting an error which was made just before Mr. Vantine died. That cabinet yonder was shipped him by mistake in place of one which he had bought. M. Armand has caused the right one to be sent over, and will take away the one which belongs to him. I have already spoken to the museum's attorney about the matter, but I wished you to be present when the exchange was made."

"I have no doubt it is all right, sir," the museum man hastened to assure me. "You, of course, have personal knowledge of all this?"

"Certainly. Mr. Vantine himself told me the story."

"Very well, sir," but his eyes dwelt lovingly upon the Boule cabinet. "That is a very handsome piece," he added. "I am sorry the museum is not to get it."

"Perhaps you can buy it from M. Armand," I suggested, but the curator laughed and shook his head.

"No," he said, "we couldn't afford it. But Sir Caspar might persuade Mr. Morgan to buy it for us—I'll mention it to him."

The two men, meanwhile, under M. Armand's direction, had been stripping the wrappings from the other cabinet, and it finally stood revealed. It, too, was a beautiful piece of furniture, but even my untrained eye could see how greatly it fell below the other.

"We shall be very pleased to have Mr. Morgan see it," said M. Armand, with a smile. "I will not conceal from you that we had already thought of him—as what dealer does not when he acquires something rare and beautiful? I shall endeavour to secure an appointment with him. Meanwhile...."

"Meanwhile the cabinet is yours," I said.

He made a little deprecating gesture, and then proceeded to have the cabinet very carefully wrapped in the burlap which had been around the other one. I watched it disappear under the rough covering with something like regret, for already my eyes were being opened to its beauty. Besides, I told myself again, with it would disappear the last hope of solving the mystery of Philip Vantine's death. However my reason might protest, some instinct told me that, in some way, the Boule cabinet was connected with that tragedy.

But at last the packing was done, and M. Armand turned to me and held out his hand.

"I shall hope to see you again, Mr. Lester," he said, with a cordiality which flattered me, "and to renew our very pleasant acquaintance. Whenever you are in Paris, I trust you will not fail to honour me by letting me know. I shall count it a very great privilege to display for you some of the beauties of our city not known to every one."

"Thank you," I said. "I shall certainly remember that invitation. And meanwhile, since you are here in New York...."

"You are most kind," he broke in, "and I was myself hoping that we might at least dine together. But I am compelled to proceed to Boston this evening, and from there I shall go on to Quebec. Whether I shall get back to New York I do not know—it will depend somewhat upon Mr. Morgan's attitude; we would scarcely entrust a business so delicate to our dealer. If I do get back, I shall let you know."

"Please do," I urged. "It will be a very great pleasure to me. Besides, I am still hoping that some solution of this mystery may occur to you."

He shook his head with a little smile.

"I fear it is too difficult for a novice like myself," he said. "It is impenetrable to me. If a solution is discovered, I trust you will inform me. It is certain to be most interesting."

"I will," I promised, and we shook hands again.

Then he signed to the two men to take up the cabinet, and himself laid a protecting hand upon it as it was carried through the door and down the steps to the van which was backed up to the curb. It was lifted carefully inside, the two men clambered in beside it, the driver spoke to the horses, and the van rolled slowly away up the Avenue.

M. Armand watched it for a moment, then mounted into the cab which was waiting, waved a last farewell to me, and followed after the van. We watched it until it turned westward at the first cross-street.

"Mr. Godfrey's occupation will be gone," said Parks, with a little laugh. "He has fairly lived with that cabinet for the past three or four days. He was here last night for quite a while."

"Last night?" I echoed, surprised. "I was sure he would be here to-day," I added, reflecting that Godfrey might have decided to have a final look at the cabinet. "He half-promised to be here, but I suppose something more important detained him."

The next instant, I was jumping down the steps two at a time, for a cab in which two men were sitting came down the Avenue, and rolled slowly around the corner in the direction taken by the van.

And just as it disappeared, one of its occupants turned toward me and waved his hand—and I recognised Jim Godfrey.



CHAPTER XIX

"LA MORT!"

That my legs, without conscious effort of my own, should carry me up the Avenue and around the corner after the cab in which I had seen Godfrey was a foregone conclusion, and yet it was with a certain vexation of spirit that I found myself racing along, for I realised that Godfrey had not been entirely frank with me. Certainly he had dropped no hint of his intention to follow Armand; but, I told myself, that might very well have been because he deemed such a hint unnecessary. I might have guessed, in spite of his seeming unconcern, that he would not allow the cabinet to pass from his sight; if he had been willing for me to turn it over to Armand, it was only because he expected developments of some sort to follow that transfer.

And it suddenly dawned upon me that even I did not know the cabinet's destination! It had not occurred to me to inquire where M. Armand proposed to take it, and he had volunteered no information.

So, after a moment, I took up the chase more contentedly, telling myself that Godfrey would not have waved to me if he had not wanted me along, and I reached the corner in time to see the van turn northward into Sixth Avenue. As soon as it and the cabs which followed it were out of sight, I sprinted along the sidewalk at top speed, and, on arriving at the corner, had the satisfaction of seeing them only a little way ahead. Here the congestion of traffic was such that the van could proceed but slowly, and I had no difficulty in keeping pace with it, without the necessity of making myself conspicuous by running. Indeed, I rather hung back, burying myself in the crowds on the sidewalk, for fear that Armand might chance to glance around and see me in pursuit.

I saw that Godfrey and Simmonds had the same fear, for the cab in which they were drew up at the curb and waited there until the van had got some distance ahead. At Sixteenth Street, it turned westward again, and then northward into Seventh Avenue.

What could Armand be doing in this part of the town, I asked myself? Did he propose to leave that priceless cabinet in this dingy quarter? And then I paused abruptly and slipped into an area-way, for the van had stopped some distance ahead and was backing up to the curb.

Looking out discreetly, I saw the cab containing Armand stop also, and that gentleman alighted and paid the driver. The other cab rattled on at a good pace and disappeared up the Avenue. Then the two porters lifted out the cabinet, and, with Armand showing them the way, carried it into the building before which the van had stopped.

They were gone perhaps five minutes, from which I argued that they were carrying it upstairs; then they reappeared, with Armand accompanying them. He tipped them and went out also to tip the driver of the van. Then the porters climbed aboard and it rattled away out of sight. Armand stood for a moment on the step, looking up and down the Avenue, then disappeared indoors.

An instant later, I saw Godfrey and another man whom I recognised as Simmonds, come out of a shop across the street and dash over to the house into which the cabinet had been taken. They were standing on the door-step when I joined them.

It was a dingy building, entirely typical of the dingy neighbourhood. The ground floor was occupied by a laundry which the sign on the front window declared to be French; and the room which the window lighted extended the whole width of the building except for a door which opened presumably on the stairway leading to the upper stories.

Godfrey's face was flaming with excitement as he turned the knob of this door gently—gently. The door was locked. He stooped and applied an eye to the key-hole.

"The key is in the lock," he whispered.

Simmonds took from his pocket a pair of slender pliers and passed them over.

Godfrey looked up and down the street, saw that for the moment there was no one near, inserted the pliers in the key-hole, grasped the end of the key, and turned it slowly.

"Now!" he said, softly opened the door and slipped inside. I followed, and Simmonds came after me like a shadow, closing the door carefully behind him.

Then we all stopped, and my heart, at least, was in my mouth, for, from somewhere overhead, came the sound of a man's voice talking excitedly.

Even in the semi-darkness, I could see the look of astonishment and alarm on Godfrey's face, as he stood for a moment motionless, listening to that voice. I also stood with ears a-strain, but I could make nothing of what it was saying; then suddenly I realised that it was speaking in French. And yet it was not Armand's voice—of that I was certain.

Fronting us was a narrow stair mounting steeply to the story overhead, and, after that moment's amazed hesitation, Godfrey sat down on the bottom step and removed his shoes, motioning us to do the same. Simmonds obeyed phlegmatically, but my hands were trembling so with excitement that I was in mortal terror lest I drop one of my shoes; but I managed to get them both off without mishap, and to set them softly on the floor at the stair-foot.

When at last I looked up with a sigh of relief, Godfrey and Simmonds were stealing slowly up the stair, revolver in hand. I followed them, but I confess my knees were knocking together, for there was something weird and chilling in that voice going on and on. It sounded like the voice of a madman; there was something about it at once ferocious and triumphant....

Godfrey paused an instant at the stairhead, listening intently; then he moved cautiously forward toward an open door from which the voice seemed to come, motioning us at the same time to stay where we were. And as I knelt, bathed in perspiration, I caught one word, repeated over and over:

"Revanche!—Revanche!—Revanche!"

Then the voice fell to a sort of low growling, as of a dog which worries its prey, and I caught a sound as of ripping cloth.

Godfrey, on hands and knees, was peering into the room. Then he drew back and motioned us forward.

I shall never forget the sight which met my eyes as I peeped cautiously around the corner of the door.

The room into which I was looking was lighted only by the rays which filtered between the slats of a closed shutter. In the middle of the floor stood the Boule cabinet, and before it, with his back to the door, stood a man ripping savagely away the strips of burlap in which it had been wrapped, talking to himself the while in a sort of savage sing-song, and pausing from moment to moment to glance at a huddled bundle lying on the floor against the opposite wall. For a time, I could not make out what this bundle was, then, straining my eyes, I saw that it was the body of a man, wrapped round and round in some web-like fabric.

And as I stared at him, I caught the glitter of his eyes as he watched the man working at the cabinet—a glitter not to be mistaken —the same glitter which had so frightened me once before....

Godfrey drew me back with a firm hand and took my place. As for me, I retreated to the stair, and sat there feverishly mopping my face and trying to understand. Who was this man? What was he doing there against the wall? What was the meaning of this ferocious scene....

Then my heart leaped into my throat, for Godfrey, with a sharp cry of "Halte-la!" sprang to his feet and dashed into the room, Simmonds at his heels.

I suppose two seconds elapsed before I reached the threshold, and I stopped there, staring, clutching at the wall to steady myself.

That scene is so photographed upon my brain that I have only to close my eyes to see it again in every detail.

There was the cabinet with its wrappings torn away; but the figure on the floor had disappeared, and before an open doorway into another room stood a man, a giant of a man, his hands above his head, his face working with fear and rage, while Godfrey, his lips curling into a mocking smile, pressed a pistol against his breast.

Then, as I stood there staring, it seemed to me that there was a sort of flicker in the air above the man's head, and he screamed shrilly.

"La mort!" he shrieked. "La mort!"

For one dreadful instant longer he stood there motionless, his hands still held aloft, his eyes staring horribly; then, with a strangled cry, he pitched forward heavily at Godfrey's feet.



CHAPTER XX

THE ESCAPE

I have a confused remembrance of Godfrey stooping for an instant above the body, staring at it, and then, with a sharp cry, hurling himself through that open doorway. A door slammed somewhere, there was a sound of running feet, and before either Simmonds or myself understood what was happening, Godfrey was back in the room, crossed it at a bound, and dashed to the door opening into the hall, just as it was slammed in his face.

I saw him tear desperately at the knob, then retreat two steps and hurl himself against it. But it held firm, and from the hall outside came a burst of mocking laughter that fairly froze my blood.

"Come here, you fools!" cried Godfrey between clenched teeth. "Don't you see he's getting away!"

Simmonds was quicker than I, and together they threw themselves at the door. It cracked ominously, but still held; again they tried, and this time it split from top to bottom. Godfrey kicked the pieces to either side and slipped between them, Simmonds after him.

Then, in a sort of trance, I staggered to it, and after a moment's aimless fumbling, was out in the hall again. I reached the stairhead in time to see Godfrey try the front door, and then turn along the lower hall leading to the back of the house. An instant later, a chorus of frenzied women's shrieks made my hair stand on end.

How I got down the stair I do not know; but I, too, turned back along the lower hall, expecting any instant to come upon I knew not what horror; I reached an open door, passed through it, and found myself in the laundry, in the midst of a group of excited and indignant women, who greeted my appearance with a fresh series of screams.

Unable to go farther, I sat limply down upon a box and looked at them.

I dare say the figure I made was ridiculous enough, for the screams gave place to subdued giggles; but I was far from thinking of my appearance, or of caring what impression I produced. And I was still sitting there when Godfrey came back, breathing heavily, chagrin and anger in his eyes. The employes of the laundry, conscious that something extraordinary was occurring, crowded about him, but he elbowed his way through them to the desk where the manager sat.

"A crime has been committed upstairs," he said. "This gentleman with me is Mr. Simmonds, of the detective bureau," and at the words Simmonds showed his shield. "We shall have to notify headquarters," Godfrey went on, "and I would advise that you keep your girls at their work. I don't suppose you want to be mixed up in it."

"Sure not," agreed the manager promptly, and while Simmonds went to the 'phone and called up police headquarters, the manager dismounted from his throne, went down among the girls, and had them back at their work in short order.

Godfrey came over to me and laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Why, Lester," he said, "you look as though you were at your last gasp."

"I am," I said. "I'm going to have nervous prostration if this thing keeps up. You're not looking particularly happy yourself."

"I'm not happy. I've let that fellow kill a man right under my nose —literally, under my nose!—and then get away!"

"Kill a man?" I repeated. "Do you mean...."

"Go upstairs and look at the right hand of the man lying there," said Godfrey, curtly, "and you'll see what I mean!"

I sat staring at him, unable to believe that I had heard aright; unable to believe that Godfrey had really uttered those words ... the right hand of the man lying there ... that could mean only one thing....

Simmonds joined us with a twisted smile on his lips, and I saw that even he was considerably shaken.

"I got Grady," he said, "and told him what had happened. He says he's too busy to come up, and that I'm to take charge of things."

Godfrey laughed a little mocking laugh.

"Grady foresees his Waterloo!" he said. "Well, it's not far distant. But I'm glad for your sake, Simmonds—you're going to get some glory out of this thing, yet!"

"I hope so," and Simmonds's eyes gleamed an instant. "The ambulance will be around at once," he added. "We'd better get our shoes on, and go back upstairs, and see if anything can be done for that fellow."

"There can't anything be done for him," said Godfrey wearily; "but we'd better have a look at him, I guess," and he led the way out into the hall.

Not until Simmonds spoke did I remember that I was shoeless. Now I sat down beside Godfrey, got fumblingly into my shoes again, and then followed him and Simmonds slowly up the stair.

I thought I knew what was passing in Godfrey's mind: he was blaming himself for this latest tragedy; he was telling himself that he should have foreseen and prevented it; he always blamed himself in that way when things went wrong—and then, to have the murderer slip through his very fingers! I could guess what a mighty shock that had been to his self-confidence!

The latest victim was lying where he had fallen, just inside the doorway leading into the inner room. Simmonds stepped to the window, threw open the shutters, and let a flood of afternoon sunshine into the room. Then he knelt beside the body, and held up the limp right hand for us to see.

Just above the knuckles were two tiny incisions, with a drop or two of blood oozing away from them, and the flesh about them swollen and discoloured.

"I knew what it was the instant he yelled 'La mort!'" said Godfrey quietly. "And he knew what it was the instant he felt the stroke. It is evident enough that he had seen it used before, or heard of it, and knew that it meant instant death."

I sat down, staring at the dead man, and tried to collect my senses. So this fiendish criminal, who slew with poison, had been lurking in Vantine's house, and had struck down first Drouet and then the master of the house himself! But why—why! It was incredible, astounding, my brain reeled at the thought. And yet it must be true!

I looked again at the third victim, and saw a man roughly dressed, with bushy black hair and tangled beard; a very giant of a man, whose physical strength must have been enormous—and yet it had availed him nothing against that tiny pin-prick on the hand!

And then a sudden thought brought me bolt upright.

"But Armand!" I cried. "Where is Armand?"

Godfrey looked at me with a half-pitying smile.

"What, Lester!" he said, "don't you understand, even yet? It was your fascinating M. Armand who did that," and he pointed to the dead man.

I felt as though I had been struck a heavy blow upon the head; black circles whirled before my eyes....

"Go over to the window," said Godfrey, peremptorily, "and get some fresh air."

Mechanically I obeyed, and stood clinging to the window-sill, gazing down at the busy street, where the tide of humanity was flowing up and down, all unconscious of the tragedy which had been enacted so close at hand. And, at last, the calmness of all these people, the sight of the world going quietly on as usual, restored me a portion of my self-control. But even yet I did not understand.

"Was it Armand," I asked, turning back into the room, "who lay there in the corner?"

"Certainly it was," Godfrey answered. "Who else could it be?"

"Godfrey!" I cried, remembering suddenly. "Did you see his eyes as he lay there watching the man at the cabinet?"

"Yes; I saw them."

"They were the same eyes...."

"The same eyes."

"And the laugh—did you hear that laugh?"

"Certainly I heard it."

"I heard it once before," I said, "and you thought it was a case of nerves!"

I fell silent a moment, shivering a little at the remembrance.

"But why did Armand lie there so quietly?" I asked, at last. "Was he injured?"

Godfrey made a little gesture toward the corner.

"Go see for yourself," he said.

Something lay along the wall, on the spot where I had seen that figure, and as I bent over it, I saw that it was a large net, finely meshed but very strong.

"That was dropped over Armand's head as he came up the stairs," said Godfrey, "or flung over him as he came into the room. Then the dead man yonder jumped upon him and trussed him up with those ropes."

Pushing the net aside, I saw upon the floor a little pile of severed cords.

"Yes," I agreed; "he would be able to do that. Have you noticed his size, Godfrey? He was almost a giant!"

"He couldn't have done it if Armand hadn't been willing that he should," retorted Godfrey, curtly. "You see he had no difficulty in getting away," and he held up the net and pointed to the great rents in it. "He cut his way out while he was lying there—I ought to have known—I ought to have known he wasn't bound—that he was only waiting—but it was all so sudden...."

He threw the net down upon the floor with a gesture of disgust and despair. Then he stopped in front of the Boule cabinet and looked down at it musingly; and, after a moment, his face brightened.

The burlap wrappings had been almost wholly torn away, and the cabinet stood, more insolently beautiful than ever, it seemed to me, under the rays of the sun, which sparkled and glittered and shimmered as they fell upon it.

"But we'll get him, Simmonds," said Godfrey, and his lips broke into a smile. "In fact, we've got him now. We have only to wait, and he'll walk into our arms. Simmonds, I want you to lock this cabinet up in the strongest cell around at your station; and carry the key yourself."

"Lock it up?" stammered Simmonds, staring at him.

"Yes," said Godfrey, "lock it up. That's our one salvation!" His face was glowing; he was quite himself again, alert, confident of victory. "You're in charge of this case, aren't you? Well, lock it up, and give your reasons to nobody."

"That'll be easy," laughed Simmonds. "I haven't got any reasons."

"Oh, yes, you have," and Godfrey bent upon him a gaze that was positively hypnotic. "You will do it because I want you to, and because I tell you that, sooner or later, if you keep this cabinet safe where no one can get at it, the man we want will walk into our hands. And I'll tell you more than that, Simmonds; if we do get him, I'll have the biggest story I ever had, and you will be world-famous. France will make you a chevalier of the Legion of Honour, Simmonds, mark my words. Don't you think the ribbon would look well in your button-hole?"

Simmonds was staring at the speaker as though he thought he had suddenly gone mad. Indeed, the thought flashed through my own brain that the disappointment, the chagrin of failure, had been too much for Godfrey.

He burst into laughter as he saw our faces.

"No, I'm not mad," he said, more soberly; "and I'm not joking. I'm speaking in deadly earnest, Simmonds, when I say that this fellow is the biggest catch we could make. He's the greatest criminal of modern times—I repeat it, Lester, this time without qualification. And now, perhaps, you'll agree with me."

And with Armand, so finished, so self-poised, so distinguished, in my mind, and the body of his latest victim before my eyes, I nodded gloomily.

"But who is he?" I asked. "Do you know who he is, Godfrey?"

"There's the ambulance," broke in Simmonds, as a knock came at the street door, and he hurried down to open it.

"Come on, Lester," and Godfrey hooked his arm through mine. "There's nothing more we can do here. We'll go down the back way. I've had enough excitement for the time being—haven't you?"

"I certainly have," I agreed, and he led the way back along the hall to another stair, down it and so out through the laundry.

"But, Godfrey, who is this man?" I repeated. "Why did he kill that poor fellow up there? Why did he kill Drouet and Vantine? How did he get into the Vantine house? What is it all about?"

"Ah!" he said, looking at me with a smile. "That is the important question—what is it all about! But we can't discuss it here in the street. Besides, I want to think it over, Lester; and I want you to think it over. If I can, I'll drop in to-night to see you, and we can thresh it out! Will that suit you?"

"Yes," I said; "and for heaven's sake, don't fail to come!"



CHAPTER XXI

GODFREY WEAVES A ROMANCE

I had begun to fear that Godfrey was going to disappoint me, so late it was before his welcome knock came at my door that night. I hastened to let him in, and I could tell by the sigh of relief with which he sank into a chair that he was thoroughly weary.

"It does me good to come in here occasionally and have a talk with you, Lester," he said, accepting the cigar I offered him. "I find it restful after a hard day," and he smiled across at me good-humouredly.

"How you keep it up I don't see," I said. "This one case has nearly given me nervous prostration."

"Well, I don't often strike one as strenuous as this," and he settled back comfortably. "As a matter of fact, I haven't had one for a long time that even touches it. There is nothing really mysterious about most crimes."

"This one is certainly mysterious enough," I remarked.

"What makes it mysterious," Godfrey explained, "is the apparent lack of motive. As soon as one learns the motive for a crime, one learns also who committed it. But where the motive can't be discovered, it is mighty hard to make any progress."

"It isn't only lack of motive which makes it mysterious," I commented; "it's everything about it. I can't understand either why it was done or how it was done. When I get to thinking about it, I feel as though I were wandering around and around in a maze, from which I can never escape."

"Oh, yes, you'll escape, Lester," said Godfrey, quietly, "and that before very long."

"If you have an explanation, Godfrey," I protested, "for heaven's sake tell me! Don't keep me in the maze an instant longer than is necessary. I've been thinking about it till my brain feels like a snarl of tangled thread. Do you mean to say you know what it is all about?"

"'Know' is perhaps a little strong. There isn't much in this world that we really know. Suppose we say that I strongly suspect." He paused a moment, his eyes on the ceiling. "You know you've accused me of romancing sometimes, Lester—the other evening, for instance; yet that romance has come true."

"I take it all back," I said, meekly.

"There's another thing these talks do," continued Godfrey, going off rather at a tangent, "and that is to clarify my ideas. You don't know how it helps me to state my case to you and to try to answer your objections. Your being a lawyer makes you unusually quick to see objections, and a lawyer is always harder to convince of a thing than the ordinary man. You are accustomed to weighing evidence; and so I never allow myself to be convinced of a theory until I have convinced you. Not always, even then," he added, with a smile.

"Well, I'm glad I'm of some use," I said, "if it is only as a sort of file for you to sharpen your wits on. So please go ahead and romance some more. Tell me first how you and Simmonds came to be following Armand."

"Simply because I had found out he wasn't Armand. Felix Armand is in Paris at this moment. You were too credulous, Lester."

"Why, I never had any doubt of his being Armand," I stammered. "He knew about my cablegram—he knew about the firm's answer...."

"Of course he did, because your cable was never received by the Armands, but by a confederate in this fellow's employ; and it was that confederate who answered it. Our friend, the unknown, foresaw, of course, that a cable would be sent the Armands as soon as the mistake was discovered, and he took his precautions accordingly."

"Then you still believe that the cabinet was sent to Vantine by design and not by accident?"

"Absolutely. It was sent by the Armands in good faith, because they believed that it had been purchased by Vantine—all of which had been arranged very carefully by the Great Unknown."

"Tell me how you know all this, Godfrey," I said.

"Why, it was easy enough. When you told me yesterday of Armand, I knew, or thought I knew, that it was a plant of some kind. But, in order to be sure, I cabled our man at Paris to investigate. Our man went at once to Armand, pere, and he learned a number of very interesting things. One was, that the son, Felix Armand, was in Paris; another was that no member of the firm knew anything about your cable or the answer to it; a third was, that, had the cable been received, it would not have been understood, because the Armands' books show that this cabinet was bought by Philip Vantine for the sum of fifteen thousand francs."

"Not this one!" I protested.

"Yes; this one. And it was cheap at the price. Of course, the Armands knew nothing about the Montespan story—they were simply selling at a profit."

"But I don't understand!" I stammered. "Vantine told me himself that he did not buy that cabinet."

"Nor did he. But somebody bought it in his name and directed that it be sent forward to him."

"And paid fifteen thousand francs for it?"

"Certainly—and paid fifteen thousand francs to the Armands."

"Rather an expensive present," I said, feebly, for my brain was beginning to whirl again.

"Oh, it wasn't intended as a present. The purchaser planned to reclaim it—but Vantine's death threw him out. If it hadn't been for that—for an accident which no one could foresee—everything would have gone along smoothly and no one would ever have been the wiser."

"But what was his object? Was he trying to evade the duty?"

"Oh, nothing so small as that! Besides, he would have had to refund the duty to Vantine. Did he refund it to you?"

"No," I said, "I didn't think there was any to refund. Vantine really paid the duty only on the cabinet he purchased, since that was the one shown on his manifest. The other fellow must have paid the duty on the cabinet he brought in; so I didn't see that there was anything coming to Vantine's estate. There is probably something due the government, for the cabinet Vantine brought in was, of course, much more valuable than his manifest showed."

"No doubt of that; and the other cabinet is the one which Vantine really purchased. It was, of course, sent forward to this other fellow's address, here in New York. His plan is evident enough—to call upon Vantine, as the representative of the Armands, or perhaps as the owner of the Montespan cabinet, and make the exchange. Vantine's death spoiled that, and he had to make the exchange through you. Even then, he would have been able to pull it off but for the fact that Vantine's death and that of Drouet had called our attention to the cabinet; we followed him, and the incidents of this afternoon ensued."

"And he accomplished all this by means of a confederate in the employ of the Armands?"

"No doubt of it. The clerk who made the supposed sale to Vantine and got a commission on it, resigned suddenly two days ago—just as soon as he had intercepted your cable and answered it. The Paris police are looking for him, but I doubt if they'll find him."

I paused to think this over; and then a sudden impatience seized me.

"That's all clear enough," I said. "The cabinets might have been exchanged just as you say they were—no doubt you are right—but all that doesn't lead us anywhere. Why were they exchanged? What is there about that Boule cabinet which makes this unknown willing to do murder for it? Does he think those letters are still in it?"

"He knows they are not in it now—you told him. Before that, he knew nothing about the letters. If he had known of them, he would have had them out before the cabinet was shipped."

"What is it, then?" I demanded. "And, above all, Godfrey, why should this fellow hide himself in Vantine's house and kill two men? Did they surprise him while he was working over the cabinet?"

"I see no reason to believe that he was ever inside the Vantine house," said Godfrey quietly; "that is, until you took him there yourself this afternoon."

"But, look here, Godfrey," I protested, "that's nonsense. He must have been in the house, or he couldn't have killed Vantine and Drouet."

"Who said he killed them?"

"If he didn't kill them, who did?"

Godfrey took two or three contemplative puffs, while I sat there staring at him.

"Well," Godfrey answered, at last, "now I'm going to romance a little. We will return to your fascinating friend, Armand, as we may as well call him for the present. He is an extraordinary man."

"No doubt of it," I agreed.

"I can only repeat what I have said before—in my opinion, he is the greatest criminal of modern times."

"If he is a criminal at all, he is undoubtedly a great one," I conceded. "But it is hard for me to believe that he is a criminal. He's the most cultured man I ever met."

"Of course he is. That's why he's so dangerous. An ignorant criminal is never dangerous—it's the ignorant criminals who fill the prisons. But look out for the educated, accomplished ones. It takes brains to be a great criminal, Lester, and brains of a high order."

"But why should a man with brains be a criminal?" I queried. "If he can earn an honest living, why should he be dishonest?"

"In the first place, most criminals are criminals from choice, not from necessity; and with a cultured man the incentive is usually the excitement of it. Have you ever thought what an exciting game it is, Lester, to defy society, to break the law, to know that the odds against you are a thousand to one, and yet to come out triumphant? And then, I suppose, every great criminal is a little insane."

"No doubt of it," I agreed.

"Just as every absolutely honest man is a little insane," went on Godfrey quickly. "Just as every great reformer and enthusiast is a little insane. The sane men are the average ones, who are fairly honest and yet tell white lies on occasion, who succumb to temptation now and then; who temporise and compromise, and try to lead a comfortable and quiet life. I repeat, Lester, that this fellow is a great criminal, and that he finds life infinitely more engrossing than either you or I. I hope I shall meet him some time—not in a little skirmish like this, but in an out-and-out battle. Of course I'd be routed, horse, foot and dragoons—but it certainly would be interesting!" and he looked at me, his eyes glowing.

"It certainly would!" I agreed. "Go ahead with your romance."

"Here it is. This M. Armand is a great criminal, and has, of course, various followers, upon whom he must rely for the performance of certain details, since he can be in but one place at a time. Abject and absolute obedience is necessary to his success, and he compels obedience in the only way in which it can be compelled among criminals—by fear. For disobedience, there is but one punishment —death. And the manner of the death is so certain and so mysterious as to be almost supernatural. For deserters and traitors are found to have died, inevitably and invariably, from the effects of an insignificant wound on the right hand, just above the knuckles."

I was listening intently now, as you may well believe, for I began to see whither the romance was tending.

"It is by this secret," Godfrey continued, "that Armand preserves his absolute supremacy. But occasionally the temptation is too great, and one of his men deserts. Armand sends this cabinet to America. He knows that in this case the temptation is very great indeed; he fears treachery, and he arranges in the cabinet a mechanism which will inflict death upon the traitor in precisely the same way in which he himself inflicts it—by means of a poisoned stab in the right hand. Imagine the effect upon his gang. He is nowhere near when the act of treachery is performed, and yet the traitor dies instantly and surely! Why, it was a tremendous idea! And it was carried out with absolute genius."

"But," I questioned, "what act of treachery was it that Armand feared?"

"The opening of the secret drawer."

"Then you still believe in the poisoned mechanism?"

"I certainly do. The tragedy of this afternoon proves the truth of the theory."

"I don't see it," I said, helplessly.

"Why, Lester," protested Godfrey, "it's as plain as day. Who was that bearded giant who was killed? The traitor, of course. We will find that he was a member of Armand's gang. He followed Armand to America, lay in wait for him, caught him in the net and bound him hand and foot. Do you suppose for an instant that Armand was ignorant of his presence in that house? Do you suppose he would have been able to take Armand prisoner if Armand had not been willing that he should?"

"I don't see how Armand could help himself after that fellow got his hands on him."

"You don't? And yet you saw yourself that he was not really bound —that he had cut himself loose!"

"That is true," I said, thoughtfully.

"Let us reconstruct the story," Godfrey went on rapidly. "The traitor discovers the secret of the cabinet; he follows Armand to New York, shadows him to the house on Seventh Avenue, waits for him there, and seizes and binds him. He is half mad with triumph—he chants a crazy sing-song about revenge, revenge, revenge! And, in order that the triumph may be complete, he does not kill his prisoner at once. He rolls him into a corner and proceeds to rip away the burlap. His triumph will be to open the secret drawer before Armand's eyes. And Armand lies there in the corner, his eyes gleaming, because it is really the moment of his triumph which is at hand!"

"The moment of his triumph?" I repeated. "What do you mean by that, Godfrey?"

"I mean that, the instant the traitor opened the drawer, he would be stabbed by the poisoned mechanism! It was for that that Armand waited!"

I lay back in my chair with a gasp of amazement and admiration. I had been blind not to see it! Armand had merely to lie still and permit the traitor to walk into the trap prepared for him. No wonder his eyes had glowed as he lay there watching that frenzied figure at the cabinet!

"It was not until the last moment," Godfrey went on, "when the traitor was bending above the cabinet feeling for the spring, that I realised what was about to happen. There was no time for hesitation —I sprang into the room. Armand vanished in an instant, and the giant also tried to escape; but I caught him at the door. I had no idea of his danger; I had no thought that Armand would dare linger. And yet he did. Now that it is too late, I understand. He had to kill that man; there were no two ways about it. Whatever the risk, he had to kill him."

"But why?" I asked. "Why?"

"To seal his lips. If we had captured him, do you suppose Armand's secret would have been safe for an instant? So he had to kill him—he had to kill him with the poisoned barb—and he did kill him, and got away into the bargain! Never in my life have I felt so like a fool as when that door was slammed in my face!"

"Perhaps he had that prepared, too," I suggested timidly, ready to believe anything of this extraordinary man. "Perhaps he knew that we were there, all the time."

"Of course he did," assented Godfrey grimly. "Why else would there be a snap-lock on the outside of the door? And to think I didn't see it! To think that I was fool enough to suppose that I could follow him about the streets of New York without his knowing it! He knew from the first that he might be followed, and prepared for it!"

"But it's incredible!" I protested feebly. "It's incredible!"

"Nothing is incredible in connection with that man!"

"But the risk—think of the risk he ran!"

"What does he care for risks? He despises them—and rightly. He got away, didn't he?"

"Yes," I said, "he got away; there's no question of that, I guess."

"Well, that is the story of this afternoon's tragedy, as I understand it," proceeded Godfrey, more calmly. "And now I'm going to leave you. I want you to think it over. If it doesn't hold together, show me where it doesn't. But it will hold together—it has to—because it's true!"

"But how about Armand?" I protested. "Aren't you going to try to capture him? Are you going to let him get away?"

"He won't get away!" and Godfrey's eyes were gleaming again. "We don't have to search for him; for we've got our trap, Lester, and it's baited with a bait he can't resist—the Boule cabinet!"

"But he knows it's a trap."

"Of course he knows it!"

"And you really think he will walk into it?" I asked incredulously.

"I know he will! One of these days, he will try to get that cabinet out of the steel cell at the Twenty-third Street station, in which we have it locked!"

I shook my head.

"He's no such fool," I said. "No man is such a fool as that. He'll give it up and go quietly back to Paris."

"Not if he's the man I think he is," said Godfrey, his hand on the door. "He will never give up! Just wait, Lester; we shall know in a day or two which of us is a true prophet. The only thing I am afraid of," he added, his face clouding, "is that he'll get away with the cabinet, in spite of us!"

And he went away down the hall, leaving me staring after him.



CHAPTER XXII

"CROCHARD, L'INVINCIBLE!"

It seemed for once that Godfrey was destined to be wrong, for the days passed and nothing happened—nothing, that is, in so far as the cabinet was concerned. There was an inquest, of course, over the victim of the latest tragedy, and once again I was forced to give my evidence before a coroner's jury. I must confess that, this time, it made me appear considerable of a fool, and the papers poked sly fun at the attorney who had walked blindly into a trap which, now that it was sprung, seemed so apparent.

The Bertillon measurements of the victim had been cabled to Paris, and he had been instantly identified as a fellow named Morel, well-known to the police as a daring and desperate criminal; in fact, M. Lepine considered the matter so important that he cabled next day that he was sending Inspector Pigot to New York to investigate the affair further, and to confer with our bureau as to the best methods to be taken to apprehend the murderer. Inspector Pigot, it was added, would sail at once for Havre on La Savoie.

Meanwhile, Grady's men, with Simmonds at their head, strained every nerve to discover the whereabouts of the fugitive; a net was thrown over the entire city, but, while a number of fish were captured, the one which the police particularly wished for was not among them. Not a single trace of the fugitive was discovered; he had vanished absolutely, and, after a day or two, Grady asserted confidently that he had left New York.

For Grady had come back into the case again, goaded by the papers, particularly by the Record, to efforts which he must have considered superhuman. The remarkable nature of the mystery, its picturesque and unique features, the fact that three men had been killed within a few days in precisely the same manner, and the absence of any reasonable hypothesis to explain these deaths—all this served to rivet public attention. Every amateur detective in the country had a theory to exploit—and far-fetched enough most of them were!