Part 22 (1/2)

”About--about ten minutes,” she replied, wondering at his question.

”And you,” exclaimed the Prefect, in a voice of fury, turning on Duvall, ”were left alone in this room, with the snuff box in your possession, for ten minutes, at the end of which time you calmly turned it over to this fellow Hartmann. _Mon Dieu!_ Why did you not destroy it--crush it under your heel--anything, to prevent our enemies from obtaining possession of it?” He looked at Duvall, his face working convulsively.

”You--you are a--_sacre bleu!_--I cannot tell you what I think of you.”

”Monsieur de Grissac,” asked Duvall, his face white, ”had I destroyed the box, or even only the key, could you have read these doc.u.ments yourself?”

The Amba.s.sador gazed at him, puzzled for a moment. ”Certainly not, monsieur,” he replied. ”I could no more have solved the cipher than they could. It was for that reason that I was forced to carry the key about with me. But it would have been infinitely better, had the doc.u.ments never again been read, than to have them read by our enemies.”

Without making any reply, Duvall placed his hand in his pocket and drew out, between his thumb and forefinger, a tiny white pellet, no larger than the head of a match. ”You are no doubt acquainted, Monsieur de Grissac,” he said, coolly, ”with your own handwriting.”

”My handwriting! Naturally. What of it?” He went toward the detective, an eager look in his face. Lefevre, Dufrenne, and Grace also crowded about, their expressions showing the interest which Duvall's questions had aroused.

The detective began to unroll the little white pellet with the utmost deliberation. It presently became a tiny strip of tissue paper, not over two and a half inches long, upon which was written a series of numbers.

”Is that, then, your handwriting, monsieur?” he inquired carelessly, as he placed the strip of paper in De Grissac's trembling hand.

”_Mon Dieu!_ The key!” fairly shouted the Amba.s.sador, as his eyes fell upon the bit of paper. ”Monsieur Duvall, what does this mean?”

”It means, monsieur,” replied the detective, coolly, ”that while I was left alone in the room downstairs, I tore off the lower half of your key, which luckily, was a sufficient width to enable me to do so, and with a fountain pen I had in my pocket, wrote upon this second slip of paper a series of numbers taken at random. This series I placed in the secret recess in the box. I do not think it will prove of much use to our friends in Brussels.”

”Duvall!” cried Lefevre, rus.h.i.+ng forward with outstretched hands.

”Forgive me--forgive me!” He was not quick enough, however, to forestall Grace, who with one cry of happiness had flung herself into her husband's arms. ”Richard!” she cried, and then sank sobbing but happy upon his breast.

Monsieur Lefevre seized his a.s.sistant by the arm and began to shake his hand in a way which almost threatened to dislocate the young man's shoulder. ”My boy,” he cried, laughing and crying at the same time, ”forgive me--forgive me. I was hasty. I should have let you speak, first. G.o.d be praised, everything is well. De Grissac--think of it--they will puzzle their brains over that cipher for weeks and weeks and they will discover nothing--nothing! Is it not splendid!” He grasped the Amba.s.sador's hand and embraced him with ardor. ”Magnificent! Superb!”

The Amba.s.sador was no less overjoyed. ”Young man,” he said, ”we owe you the deepest apologies. No one could have done better. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Dufrenne also offered his congratulations. ”My friend,” he said, ”I have done you a great injustice. I salute you, not only as a brave man, but as a very shrewd one. As for me, I fear I am only an old fool.”

Duvall patted the old man on the shoulder and smiled. ”A patriot, monsieur, and for that I honor you. I was luckily able to turn the tables on these fellows. But one thing you, and all of you, gentlemen, should know. Had I not been able to subst.i.tute a false key for the real one, the latter would never have pa.s.sed into Hartmann's hands, if I had died for it.”

”I know it, my friend. I was a fool, a dolt, even for one moment to doubt it. I ask your pardon, and that of madame, your wife,” cried Lefevre, seizing Duvall's hands in his. Grace looked proudly at her husband, her knowledge of her own weakness forgotten in the triumph that he had won.

”And now, monsieur,” said Duvall, with a look of happiness in his face as he caught his wife's glance, ”with your permission, Mrs. Duvall and myself will begin once more our interrupted honeymoon.”