Part 12 (1/2)

”Who is it?”

”I do not know. He gives the name of Victor Girard.”

”Very well. Send him up.”

Grace heard the name--Victor Girard. A sudden wave of weakness swept over her. It was Richard! He had used the name frequently, in the past.

She heard him ascending the short flight of stairs. There was no escape.

Yet Monsieur Lefevre particularly insisted that he should not recognize her. She hastily drew down her veil. ”Get rid of him as soon as you can,” she whispered to Valentin, and shrunk back into the shadow.

Duvall came in, glancing sharply about him. He had been waiting to see Valentin since early in the evening, and had inquired for him twice before, only to find that he was out.

”What can I do for you, Monsieur?” inquired Valentin.

The detective drew the note from his pocket--the note which Mary Lanahan had sent to Valentin, and which Duvall had intercepted. ”This is for you, Monsieur?” he asked, then suddenly paused, astounded. In the dim light, he caught sight of Grace, standing on the opposite side of the room, watching him closely. ”I--I thought--Monsieur--I thought you were alone,” he gasped, his eyes fixed on Grace as though he had seen a ghost. ”I--I beg your pardon, but--” He was unable to proceed.

Valentin looked at him in amazement. ”What is it, my friend?” he asked sharply. ”Tell me your business, if you please, and go. I have a visitor.”

”Yes--Monsieur--so--so I see.” Duvall pulled himself together with a mighty effort and turned his glance to Valentin. He had suffered a great shock. For a moment he would have been ready to swear that Grace, his dear wife, stood before him in the flesh--and yet the thing was an absurdity: Grace, with her golden brown hair, her clear complexion, was three thousand miles away! This woman, dark, typically French, was quite evidently an entirely different person; yet the resemblance was startling--he felt himself shaking in every fiber.

”Well, Monsieur, give me the letter, since you say it is for me,” he heard Valentin saying.

In an instant he had recovered his self possession. ”Here,” he exclaimed, handing the note to the man before him. ”It is from Mary Lanahan. I have read it.”

”You have read it, Monsieur!” Valentin exclaimed, angrily. ”By what right, then, do you presume to read my letters?” He took the note and hurriedly read its contents. ”Sacre!” he exclaimed. ”What does this mean?”

”It means, my friend, that I want that box of gold-tipped cigarettes.”

Grace started. So Richard, too, was interested in the recovery of these mysterious cigarettes. What on earth, she wondered, could it mean?

”In the first place, Monsieur, let me inform you that I have no cigarettes, gold-tipped or otherwise. In the second place, I question your right to make any such demands.”

”Does not the note from Mary Lanahan request you to destroy them?”

Valentin turned pale. ”I tell you I have no such cigarettes!” he cried.

”Are they not the sort, then, that you usually smoke?”

”I do not smoke at all, Monsieur.”

Duvall laughed. ”So you both tell the same story, it seems. My friend, I dislike to discuss these matters before a stranger.” He glanced significantly at Grace.

She dared not go. To speak--even to bid Valentin good evening, would, she felt sure, betray her. So she remained silent.

”Then take yourself off. I certainly have no desire to discuss them. I tell you, I do not smoke--I have no cigarettes--that is enough!”

”What does that note mean, then?” asked Duvall sternly.

”That is Miss Lanahan's affair--and mine.”

Duvall drew out his pocketbook, and extracted from it the bit of cigarette stump, with the gold tip, which he had found that morning in the Bois de Boulogne. ”Monsieur Valentin,” he said, ”I found this end of a cigarette at the exact place in the gra.s.s, in the Bois de Boulogne, where Mr. Stapleton's child and nurse were, when the boy was stolen. The chauffeur was asleep. You could readily have walked up, taken away the child, and no one would have been the wiser. The story of Mary Lanahan, that no one came near her, that the boy disappeared into thin air, is absurd. The presence of the half-smoked cigarette, of a kind which I have reason to believe you use, convinces me that you were there in the Bois, with the nurse, at the time of the kidnapping--if indeed you did not take an active part in it. The message from Mary Lanahan, which I have just handed you, directing you to destroy the cigarettes,--which, no doubt, she feared, after my questioning, might be used as evidence against you,--serves as strong additional proof. I believe that you know where Mr. Stapleton's child is.”