CHAPTER VII.

Of the tragedy on the Norwich road no more had been heard. The police had relinquished their inquiries, the affair had been placed upon the long list of unsolved mysteries, and it had passed out of the public mind. Only to the British Cabinet had the matter caused great suspense and serious consideration, while it had cost the Earl of Bracondale, as Foreign Minister, the greatest efforts of the most delicate diplomacy to hold his own in defiance to the German intentions. For two whole months the Foreign Office had lived in daily expectation of sudden hostilities. In the Wilhelmstrasse the advisability of a raid upon our shores had been seriously discussed, and the War Council were nearly unanimous in favour of crossing swords with England.

Only by the clever and ingenious efforts of British secret agents in Berlin, who kept Darnborough informed of all in progress, was Lord Bracondale able to stem the tide and guide the ship of state into the smooth waters of peace.

And of all this the British public had remained in blissful ignorance. The reader of the morning paper was assured that never in this decade had the European outlook been so peaceful, and that our relations with our friends in Berlin were of the most cordial nature. Indeed, there was some talk of an entente.

The reader was, however, in ignorance that for weeks on end the British fleet had been kept in the vicinity of the North Sea, and that the destroyer flotillas were lying in the East Coast harbours with steam up, ready to proceed to sea at a moment’s notice.

Nevertheless, the peril had passed once again, thanks to the firm, fearless attitude adopted by Lord Bracondale, and though the secret of England’s weakness was known and freely commented upon in Government circles in Berlin, yet the clamorous demands of the war party were not acceded to. The British lion had shown his teeth, and Germany had again hesitated.

Ralph Ansell and Adolphe Carlier, after the failure of their plot to rob Matheson and Wilson’s, in Bond Street, had fled next day to Belgium, and thence had returned to France.

Ralph had seen Jean for a few moments before his flight, explaining that his sudden departure was due to the death of his uncle, a landowner near Valence, in whose estate he was interested, and she, of course, believed him.

So cleverly, indeed, did he deceive her that it was not surprising that old Libert and his daughter should meet the young adventurer at the Hotel Terminus at Lyons one day in November, and that three days later Ralph and Jean were married at the Mairie. Then while the old restaurateur returned to London, the happy pair went South to Nice for their honeymoon.

While there Adolphe Carlier called one day at their hotel—a modest one near the station—and was introduced to Jean.

From the first moment they met, Adolphe’s heart went forth to her in pity and sympathy. Though a thief bred and born, and the son of a man who had spent the greater part of his life in prison, Carlier was ever chivalrous, even considerate, towards a woman. He was coarser, and outwardly more brutal than Ralph Ansell, whose veneer of polish she, in her ignorance of life, found so attractive, yet at heart, though an expert burglar, and utterly unscrupulous towards his fellows, he was, nevertheless, always honourable towards a woman.

When their hands clasped and their eyes met upon their introduction, she instantly lowered hers, for, with a woman’s intuition, she knew that in this companion of her husband’s she had a true friend. And he, on his part, became filled with admiration of her great beauty, her wonderful eyes, and her soft, musical voice.

And he turned away, affecting unconcern, although in secret he sighed for her and for her future. She was far too good to be the wife of such a man as Ralph Ansell.

Months went on, and to Jean the mystery surrounding Ralph became more and more obscure.

At first they had lived quietly near Bordeaux, now and then receiving visits from Adolphe. On such occasions the two men would be closeted together for hours, talking confidentially in undertones. Then, two months after their marriage, came a telegram one day, stating that her father had died suddenly. Both went at once to London, only to find that poor old Libert had died deeply in debt. Indeed, there remained insufficient money to pay for the funeral.

Therefore, having seen her father buried at Highgate, Jean returned with Ralph to Paris, where they first took a small, cosy apartment of five rooms in the Austerlitz quarter; but as funds decreased, they were forced to economise and sink lower in the social scale—to the Montmartre.

To Jean, who had believed Ralph to be possessed of ample means, all this came as a gradual disillusionment. Her husband began quickly to neglect her, to spend his days in the cafés, often in Adolphe’s company, while the men he brought to their rooms were, though well-dressed, of a very different class to those with whom she had been in the habit of associating in London.

But the girl never complained. She loved Ralph with a fond, silent passion, and even the poor circumstances in which already, after ten months of married life, she now found herself, did not trouble her so long as her husband treated her with consideration.

As regards Adolphe, she rather avoided than encouraged him. Her woman’s keenness of observation showed her that he sympathised with her and admired her—in fact, that he was deeply in love with her, though he strenuously endeavoured not to betray his affection.

Thus, within a year of the tragic end of Dick Harborne, Jean found herself living in a second-floor flat in a secluded house in the Boulogne quarter, not far from the Seine, a poor, working-class neighbourhood. The rooms, four in number, were furnished in the usual cheap and gaudy French style, the floor of bare, varnished boards, save where strips of Japanese matting were placed.

On that warm August evening, Jean, in a plain, neatly-made black dress, with a little white collar of Swiss embroidery, and wearing a little apron of spotted print—for their circumstances did not permit the keeping of a “bonne”—was seated in her small living-room, sewing, and awaiting the return of her husband.

She had, alas! met with sad disillusionment. Instead of the happy, affluent circumstances which she had fondly imagined would be hers, she had found herself sinking lower and lower. Her parents were now both dead, and she had no one in whom to confide her suspicions or fears. Besides, day after day, Ralph went out in the morning after his café-au-lait, and only returned at eight o’clock to eat the dinner which she prepared—alas! often to grumble at it. Slowly—ah! so very slowly—the hideousness and mockery of her marriage was being forced upon her.

Gradually, as she sat at the open window waiting his coming, and annoyed because the evening meal which she had so carefully cooked was spoilt by his tardiness, the dusk faded and darkness crept on.

She felt stifled, and longed again for the fresh air of the country. Before her, as she sat with her hands idle in her lap, there arose memories of that warm afternoon when, in that charming little fishing village in England, she had met her good friend Richard Harborne, the man who that very same evening fell beneath an assassin’s knife.

Her thoughts were stirred from the fact that, while out that morning, Mme. Garnier, from whom she purchased her vegetables daily, had given her a marguerite. This she wore in the breast of her gown, and its sight caused her to reflect that on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon at Mundesley, when she had walked with Harborne, he, too, had given her a similar flower. Perfumes and flowers always stir our memories of the past!

She sat gazing out into the little moss-grown courtyard below, watching for Ralph’s coming. That quarter of Paris was a poor one, inhabited mainly by artisans, yet the house was somewhat secluded, situated as it was in a big square courtyard away from the main thoroughfare. Because it was quiet, Ralph had taken it, and further, because Mme. Brouet, the concierge, a sharp-faced, middle-aged woman, wife of a cobbler, who habitually wore a small black knitted shawl, happened to be an acquaintance of his.

But, alas! the place was dismal enough. The outlook was upon a high, blank, dirty wall, while below, among the stones, grass and rank weeds grew everywhere.

The living room in which the girl sat was poor and comfortless, though she industriously kept the place clean. It was papered gaudily with broad stripes, while the furniture consisted of a cheap little walnut sideboard, upon which stood a photograph in a frame, a decanter, a china sugar-bowl, and some plates, while near it was a painted, movable cupboard on which stood a paraffin lamp with green cardboard shade, and a small fancy timepiece, which was out of order and had stopped.

In the centre of the room was a round table, upon which was a white cloth with blue border and places laid for two, and four rush-bottomed chairs placed upon the square of Japanese matting covering the centre of the room completed the picture.

Jean laid aside her needlework—mending one of Ralph’s shirts—and sighed over the might-have-been.

“I wonder what it all means?” she asked herself aloud. “I wonder what mysterious business Ralph has so constantly with Adolphe? And why does Mme. Brouet inquire so anxiously after Ralph every day?”

For the past fortnight her husband, whose clothes had now become very shabby, had given her only a few francs each day, just sufficient with which to buy food. Hitherto he had taken her out for walks after dusk, and sometimes they had gone to a cinema or to one of the cheaper music-halls. But, alas! nowadays he never invited her to go with him. Usually he rose at noon, after smoking many cigarettes in bed, ate his luncheon, and went out, returning at any time between six and eight, ate his dinner, often sulkily, and then at nine Carlier would call for him, and the pair would be out till midnight.

She little guessed in what a queer, disreputable set the pair moved, and that her husband was known in the Montmartre as “The American.” She was in ignorance, too, how Ralph, finding himself without funds, had gone to the Belgian Baron—the secret agent of Germany—and offered him further services, which had, however, been declined.

At first Ansell had been defiant and threatening, declaring that he would expose the Baron to the police as a foreign spy. But the stout, fair-moustached man who lived in the fine house standing in its own spacious grounds out at Neuilly, on the other side of the Bois de Boulogne, had merely smiled and invited him to carry out his threat.

“Do so, my friend,” he laughed, “and you will quickly find yourself arrested and extradited to England charged with murder. So if you value your neck, it will, I think, be best for you to keep a still tongue. There is the door. Bon soir.”

And he had shown his visitor out.

At first Ansell, who took a walk alone in the Bois, vowed vengeance, but a few hours later, after reflecting upon the whole of the grim circumstances, had come to the conclusion that silence would be best.

Though he had endeavoured not to show it, he was already regretting deeply that he had married. Had he been in better circumstances, Jean might, he thought, have been induced to assist him in some of his swindling operations, just as the wives of other men he knew had done. A woman can so often succeed where a man fails. But as he was almost without a sou, what could he do?

Truth to tell, both he and Carlier were in desperate straits.

Jean had been quick to notice the change in both men, but she had remained in patience, making no remark, though the whole circumstances puzzled her, and often she recollected how happy she had been at the Maison Collette when she had lived at home, and Ralph, so smart and gentlemanly, had called to see her each evening.

These and similar thoughts were passing through her mind, when suddenly she was recalled to her present surroundings by Ralph’s sudden entrance.

“Halloa!” he cried roughly. “Dinner ready?”

“It has been ready more than an hour, dear,” she replied, in French, jumping to her feet and passing at once into the tiny kitchen beyond.

CHAPTER VIII.

Having discarded his cap and tossed it across upon a chair, revealing his high, square forehead, he threw off his coat, and in his shirt-sleeves sat down at the table, exclaiming:

“Now, then, girl, I hope you’ve got something eatable to-night. I shall want something to keep me going before to-morrow morning.”

“Why?” asked the girl, putting down the tureen of pot-au-feu and seating herself.

“I’ve got a little business on, that’s all,” he snapped, taking his soup, commencing it, and grumbling that it was badly made.

“I do my best, Ralph,” she protested. “You know I’ve had no money for three days now.”

“And if you had, the soup would be just the same,” he declared. “You may be all very well to make hats, but you’re no good as a man’s wife. I’ve discovered that long ago. I—”

His words were interrupted by a loud rap at the door.

He started in alarm, but the next second sprang up and welcomed his visitor warmly.

“You, Adolphe, old fellow!” he cried. “Why, you gave me quite a start. Come in and have a bit of dinner. I want to talk to you. I was coming to find you as soon as I’d finished. Jean, another plate for Adolphe.”

So the man who had entered laid his hard-felt hat on the sideboard, as was his habit, and sat down at the table in the chair that his friend had placed for him.

Then Ansell, having carefully closed the window, went back to the table and, bending towards his friend, said:

“Listen. I’m going to tell you something important. I’ve got a good thing on for us both to-night. You know the Baron’s out at Neuilly? Well, to-night, it quite——”

“Hush, Ralph! Madame——” his companion cried, glancing at Jean, apprehensively.

“Oh, she may just as well know the truth at first as at last,” laughed Ansell roughly. Then, turning to his wife, he exclaimed, with a sinister grin: “Perhaps, Jean, you may wonder how we live—how I have got my money in the past. Well, I may as well tell you, for one day you will surely discover our secret. We are burglars.”

The girl started, staring blankly at her husband, and uttered a low scream.

“Burglars!” she gasped, astounded.

“Yes. And now you know the truth, take care that you never blab out a word to anyone, or, by Heaven, it will be the worse for you! If you say a word,” he added, fiercely, with knit brows and glaring eyes, “if you let drop a hint to anybody, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

“Ralph!” she cried, starting up in horror. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Enough!” protested Adolphe, angrily. “I won’t stand by and hear such threats, Ralph.”

“What, pray, is it to do with you?” asked Ansell, fiercely. “She’s my wife, and I can speak to her. I can tell her what home-truths I like without your interference.”

“I should have deemed it more prudent to have said nothing, Ralph,” answered the other quietly.

Though Carlier was dressed also in a striped jacket and waistcoat and black trousers, he wore no collar, and looked even a greater blackguard than his friend.

His eyes met Jean’s, and in them he saw an expression of silent thanks for taking her part.

Then she turned and, covering her face with her hands, burst into bitter, blinding tears, and disappeared into the little kitchen.

“Sit down,” Ansell urged. “Now that little fool has gone, we can talk.”

“You are a perfect idiot,” declared the other, in disgust.

“That’s my affair. She’ll have to be brought to her senses and know the truth.”

“It has upset her.”

“I can’t help that,” he laughed. “She must get over it. If she wants fine dresses and a good time she must help us. And I mean that she shall before long. Look at Tavernier’s wife.”

“She is of a different type to madame.”

“Rubbish!” he laughed. “Wait and see what I’ll do. She’ll be a valuable asset to us before long.”

Adolphe leaned his elbows upon the table and shrugged his shoulders.

“Bien!” he said. “Let me hear the proposition.”

“It is quite simple,” the young adventurer said. “I know the interior of the Baron’s house. There is a lot of good stuff there—some jewellery, too, and even enough table silver to make the job worth while. In his safe he keeps a lot of papers. If we could only get them they would fetch something in certain quarters—enough to make us both rich; but the worst of it is that we left our jet in London, and we cannot get it without.” And he took a caporal from the packet before him and slowly lit it. Then he resumed, saying: “Now, I propose that we leave the safe out of the question, and go for the plate in the salle-à-manger. We have no tools for a really artistic job, so we must be content this time with the Baron’s embroideries. His papers may come later—at least, that’s my project. I’ve been out at Neuilly all day, and have had a good look around, and decided on the way we shall get in. It is perfectly easy—all save the watchdog. But a bit of doctored meat will do the trick. I got a little dose for him from old Père Lebrun on my way home,” and from his pocket he produced a small bottle.

“Is the Baron at home?” asked his accomplice, to whom, of course, Ansell had never spoken about the failure of his plot for blackmail.

“Of course,” was the reply. “But what does that matter? He’ll be sound asleep, and to-morrow we shall be a couple of thousand francs the richer. It is childishly easy, my dear friend, I assure you.”

“And if we meet the Baron, who, if all I hear be true, is an extremely shrewd person, what shall we do?”

“Well, if we meet anybody, we must act as we have always acted.”

“Shoot, eh?”

Ansell nodded and grinned.

“We had bad luck in London, remember,” said “The Eel.”

“Yes; but it is easy out at Neuilly,” the other declared. “I’ve been in the salle-à-manger, remember. Every bit of plate in use is solid silver. Much of it is kept in drawers in the room. Besides, there were a lot of knick-knacks about in the large salon. Levy will buy them in a moment. We are on a soft thing, I can assure you. I was an ass not to have thought of it long ago. Once the dog is silenced the rest is quite easy.”

Carlier, who had only two francs in his pocket, reflected deeply. He was silent for fully three minutes, while his companion watched his face narrowly.

“When do you propose starting?”

“Say at eleven. We’ll get your things from your place, and I’ll take my flash-lamp, keys, and a few other necessaries.”

“No, you’ll not, Ralph!” cried Jean, as she rushed out from the kitchen, where behind the half-closed door she had been listening to the plot.

“Shut up, girl, will you?” her husband commanded roughly. “We want no woman’s advice in our business.”

And rising from his chair, he unlocked the drawer in the movable cupboard wherein he kept certain of his private belongings, and took therefrom a serviceable-looking revolver, which he examined and saw was fully loaded.

He also drew forth some skeleton keys, a burglar’s jemmy in two sections, a pair of india-rubber gloves, a small, thin saw, and an electric pocket-lamp, all of which he carefully stowed away in his pockets.

The contents of that drawer were a startling revelation to Jean. He had always kept it locked, and she had often wondered what it contained.

Now that she knew she stood staggered.

She looked in horror at the revolver he held in his hand, and then with a sudden movement she flung herself upon him and grasped his arms, appealing to him for the sake of her love to desist from such an adventure.

Quick and passionate came the words, the full, fervent appeal of a woman deeply and honestly in love. But he heeded not either her tears or her words, and only cast her from him with a rough malediction, declaring her to be an encumbrance.

“But think!” she cried. “Now that I know what you are I am in deadly fear that—that one day they may come, Ralph, and take you away from me.”

And she stood pale-faced and trembling before him.

“Ah, never fear, my girl,” replied her husband. “They’ll never have me. They’ve tried a good many times, haven’t they Adolphe?” and he laughed defiantly. “The police! Zut! I do not fear them!” and he snapped his thin, long fingers in contempt.

“But one day, dear—one day they may be successful. And—and what should I do?”

“Do?” he asked. “Well, if I were put away I suppose you’d have to do as a good many other women have done.”

She looked at him very straight in deep reproach, but uttered no word.

Disillusionment had fallen upon her, and utterly crushed her. Ralph—her Ralph—the man in whom all her love, all her thoughts, all her sympathies were centred, was a thief, and, further, he had cursed her as an encumbrance.

The poor girl drew her hand across her brow as though unable to actually realise the astounding facts. She was stunned by the hideous truth which had that evening been revealed. The blow had in an instant crushed all the light out of her life.

She now realised the reason of those many secret conferences with Carlier, and certain other rather disreputable-looking companions, jail-birds, without a doubt. She knew why he was sometimes absent all night, why he had stolen in, weary and worn, in the early hours of the morning, and why, on one occasion, he had remained in the house for two whole weeks and had never once gone out.

“Well, now you know the truth, girl, I hope you won’t ask any more inquisitive questions,” Ralph said, noticing how strangely she had stared at him. “Our business concerns nobody but ourselves—you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” she replied, slowly, in a strange, hard voice. “I understand, too, Ralph, that you no longer love me, or you would never have spoken to me as you have to-night.”

And she burst into tears.

“Ralph, Ralph, this is too bad!” protested his friend. “You ought to have a little pity for poor madame—you really ought.”

“I tell you I don’t want any interference in my domestic affairs, so shut up, or you and I won’t agree. Do you hear that—once and for all?” replied Ansell determinedly, thrusting his bony face into that of this companion.

The latter shrugged his shoulders, and merely remarked:

“Well, you surprise me greatly.”

Of a sudden, however, Jean, with a quick movement, sprang towards her husband, who had already put on his coat and cap, and placed the revolver in his pocket preparatory to departing upon his midnight adventure. She seized him by both wrists and, throwing herself wildly upon her knees, begged and implored him not to go.

“For my sake, Ralph, don’t go!” she urged. “Don’t go! Give up the project! Work and lead an honest life, I beg of you.”

“Honest life!” he laughed with a sneer. “Can you imagine me sitting in an office all day, adding up figures, or writing letters for some other thief with a brass plate on his office door? No, I’m not cut out for that, I assure you,” he added.

“But for my sake, don’t go,” she urged again, his hands still in hers, for she held them firmly, and placed them to her lips.

His confession that he was a thief had fallen upon her, and for the first few moments had held her speechless, but now she had found tongue, and even though the disgraceful truth was out, her first thought was for his safety.

“You’re a confounded little fool!” he declared, roughly. “Let me go. Come on, Adolphe! We haven’t any use for women’s tears.”

And he twisted her hands roughly so that she was compelled to relinquish her hold.

He was leaving the room, but again she caught him, clinging to him resolutely, and beseeching him to heed her word.

This angered him. His face was pale, his eyes flashed quickly and, gripping her by the right hand, he raised his fist to strike her.

In a flash, however, Carlier, who stood with his hat on ready to depart, sprang in from behind, and gripped the brute’s arm, shouting:

“No, you shall not strike her—not while I am present! Come away, you infernal coward!”

Jean gave vent to a hysterical shriek, and shook herself free, but ere she could realise what had actually happened, the two men, without further word, had left the room, her husband slamming the door after him with a fierce imprecation.

Then she stood alone, white-faced, terrified, heart-broken.

Ralph Ansell had at last shown himself in his true colours—a thief, a bully, a coward, and a blackguard.

And yet she had loved him until that hour—loved him with all the strength of her being—loved him as she had loved no other man in her whole life.

She had lived only for him, and she would have willingly died for him had he not raised his hand against her.

But she stood in the centre of that meagre little room, staring straight before her, her countenance white to the lips, her big, dark eyes fixed like one in a dream.

Poor Jean! Even then her brain was awhirl. She could scarcely realise the grim, terrible truth.

For a few moments she stood there motionless as a statue, then suddenly she staggered, reeled, and collapsed, inert and senseless, upon the floor.

CHAPTER IX.

The horrible, bitter truth had been forced upon her, and she saw it in all its hideousness.

“He raised his hand to strike me down!” she murmured to herself. “He would have struck me, had it not been for Adolphe. Ah! yes,” she sighed. “Adolphe knows—he knows the truth—of all I have suffered. Ralph is a thief, and—and the police will one day arrest him. He will be tried and punished, and I shall be left alone—alone!”

For a long time the despairing girl sat in her lonely room, bent and utterly crushed. Her thoughts were of the man she loved, and who, in return, had now revealed his contempt, even hatred. He had told her that she was but an encumbrance. He had not minced matters, but spoken openly and frankly, like the brute he was.

She was unaware that “The American” was well known in the Montmartre as a keen, unscrupulous man, against whom were so many charges. Next to Bonnemain himself, he had been the most daring and expert of all that dangerous gang.

How cleverly he had deceived her, however, she now knew. Her senses seemed benumbed, for the blow had rendered her, for the time, insensible.

A full hour went by.

The room was silent, save that from the courtyard below rose the drunken voice of a workman who lived in the ground-floor flat—the husband of the slatternly concierge—who had just returned.

The broken clock still pointed to the hour of four, therefore she had no idea of the time, but sat staring in front of her, like one in a dream.

Once or twice her breast slowly heaved and fell beneath her neat, black gown. Then at last she rose and, crossing to the cupboard with firm resolve, took out a small, ten-centime bottle of ink and an envelope.

Seating herself at the table, she took the pen in her trembling fingers, and with tears falling upon the paper, traced uneven words in French, as follows:

Slowly she folded it, took off her wedding-ring, and placed it in the envelope, together with the letter. Afterwards she addressed it to her husband, and left it upon the table. Then slowly she rose with a hard, fixed look, and passed into the adjoining room, which was a bedroom.

She took a sad farewell of the few little treasures which she had brought from her own room in Oxford Street—knick-knacks, photographs, and the like—and, putting on her hat, passed back across the living-room, and then crept down the stairs and out—undiscovered and unheard by the ever-watchful old woman in the black, knitted shawl.

Without a glance back, she gained the broad, well-lit thoroughfare, and, turning to the left, went blindly and broken-hearted along in the direction of the Bois, out into the world, sad, despairing, and alone, heedless of where her steps led her, out into the unknown.

Meanwhile “The American” and “The Eel” were busy with their adventure.

To the left of the broad, main avenue, which, running through Neuilly-on-Seine, crosses the river to Courbevoie, lived the wealthy Baron de Rycker.

The house stood alone in a secluded spot, surrounded by its own spacious grounds, and hidden from the road by a high wall. In this was a big gate of ornamental iron, the top of which was gilded—a gate which the concierge, who lived in the lodge beside it, always kept locked.

But, through the gate, the house itself could not be seen, because plates of iron had been fixed half-way up, shutting out the view of house and well-kept grounds from the public view.

As Ralph was aware, the concierge was more than a mere lodge-keeper. He knew who were the Baron’s friends, and admitted them without question, in whatever garb they might chance to be. But any inquisitive person, or stranger, never got within that gate, or if they attempted, they met with a warm reception from the fierce dog which constantly prowled about the grounds.

The two men arrived in Neuilly soon after eleven o’clock and, entering a café near the river, remained there smoking and drinking coffee, till midnight, when they went forth, treading lightly, for at “The Eel’s” lodgings in the Rue Lapage, off the Boulevard de Clichy, they had both put on boots with india-rubber soles.

Passing the wall of the Baron’s garden, they found all quiet and in darkness.

Then “The American” went back as far as the gate and threw a stone against the ironwork, with the result that the dog, which prowled there at night, barked furiously.

That was what Ralph Ansell desired.

Taking from his pocket a stone, to which was tied by cotton a piece of poisoned liver, he threw it over the gate and listened to it drop upon the gravel.

In a moment the dog, with natural curiosity, pounced upon it, and finding it to be a toothsome delicacy, could not resist it.

For another five minutes Ralph waited without making a sound.

Then he threw another stone against the iron sheeting of the gate.

The noise was loud. But there was no answering bark.

Then he crept back to where Adolphe lurked in the shadow.

A quarter of an hour later, both men were crouching before a long window which led out upon a well-kept lawn. They had scaled the wall, and crept across the grass without a sound.

The weather favoured them, for there was a slight west wind which, while catching the foliage of the trees, caused it to rustle and so conceal any slight noise they might make.

Ralph pressed the button of his electric lamp, and a small spot of light shone upon the glass. Then, with expert hand, he quickly smeared it with treacle, and afterwards, with a glazier’s diamond, cut out a piece sufficient to allow him to insert his hand and turn the latch within.

A moment later, both men were inside the large, well-furnished salle-à-manger, treading noiselessly upon the thick Turkey carpet, though “The Eel,” in entering, unfortunately stumbled, and in grabbing the door to prevent himself falling, cut his hand badly, even through the india-rubber gloves they both wore.

The pair lost no time in clearing the fine, carved sideboard of the quantity of valuable plate it contained. Then, led by Ralph, to whom the interior of the big house was well known, “The Eel” entered the cosy, luxuriously-furnished library, which was the private den of the chief secret agent of the German Empire.

It was not a large room. Its size was revealed to Adolphe by the flashing of his companion’s lamp. Lined with books, and with a big, business-like writing-table placed in the window, it was a cosy place—a place with which many a spy of Germany was familiar and in which many a man had received a bundle of hundred-franc notes in return for information, or plans of France’s armaments or defences.

From it a door led straight into the grounds, so that a visitor was not compelled to pass through the house in order to have a confidential chat with its owner, while in a farther corner of the garden was a door in the wall by which a side road might be gained.

Neither man spoke as they made a noiseless tour of the room. “The Eel” carried a capacious sack of black material, and into it thrust what knick-knacks seemed to be of value—several miniatures, a couple of gold snuff-boxes, a small box of Limoges enamel, and the like, while “The American” was busy with his skeleton keys at the drawers of the big writing-table.

Suddenly he beckoned to Adolphe, and the latter, as he approached, saw that he had succeeded in opening one of the small drawers. Within was a secret cavity known to the thief, for he had twice watched the German spy take money from it.

There was a spring at the back of the drawer, and as “The Eel” directed the rays of light inside, his companion fingered it, with the result that of a sudden a portion of the wood fell back and from within the other drew out a large bundle of French thousand-franc notes secured by an elastic band.

With a low whistle Ansell, with gloating eyes, slipped them into his breast pocket.

Then, diving his hand in again, he drew out several handsome bracelets set with diamonds and emeralds, two strings of matched pearls, a diamond and platinum pendant, a muff-chain set with diamonds, and a child’s coral necklace—the jewellery belonging to the Baron’s dead wife and his little daughter—which he kept concealed there—a relic of a long-past domestic happiness.

With scarce a glance at the valuables, the thief thrust them into his pocket.

Eagerly they cleared the secret space behind the back of the drawer. There were three other bank-notes lying loose, about twenty golden louis, two ruby rings, and lastly a safe-key, which Ralph held up in triumph, whispering:

“What about the Baron’s secret correspondence—eh?”

“Where’s the safe?” asked his companion.

“Upstairs—in his room, I expect. It is not here.”

Then, leaving the drawer open, Ralph Ansell crossed the room and, opening his big clasp-knife, the blade of which was as sharp as a razor, he commenced to slash vigorously at the pale green silk upholstery of the couch and easy chairs. He was angry and vicious in his attacks upon the furniture, cutting and slashing everywhere in his triumph over the man who had refused to further assist him.

“The Eel” watched without uttering a remark. He had seen such explosions of anger before on the part of his companion when they were doing other “jobs.” It is, indeed, well known to criminologists and to all police officials that the average burglar is never satisfied with mere theft, however great may be his coup, but that some force impels him to spend time in committing wanton damage to the furniture.

It was so with Ralph Ansell. He hated the Baron, therefore he slashed his furniture. In many other homes he had acted in a similar way, just as, indeed, Bonnemain always acted, carrying a keen knife for the purpose.

“Shall we risk going to his room?” whispered Adolphe, who approached him.

“Of course, my friend. A few of those papers will be worth thousands of francs to us,” he replied in a low breath. “This is the job of our lives, mon vieux. I daresay there are papers there which the German Government would buy back at any price we chose to put on them.”

“All right, then,” was “The Eel’s” reply. “If there’s no great risk, then let us have a try.”

“You’ve got your revolver—eh?”

“No. I never carry one now,” was Adolphe’s response.

“Never mind, I’ve got one; and I shall shoot—if necessary,” Ralph replied. “I mean to have those papers at all costs. So don’t lose your head.”

“I never do.”

“Bien! Then to work.”

And the pair crept from the room without a sound, and along the dark, thickly-carpeted corridor.

CHAPTER X.

As Ralph looked around, he again became seized by that uncontrollable desire to commit damage for the mere sake of wanton destruction; therefore drawing his knife, he slashed quickly at a big ottoman covered with old rose silk damask, cutting it across and across. Afterwards he treated a down cushion in the same fierce fashion, causing the feathers to fly about the room.

“Come—enough!” whispered “The Eel” at his elbow. “Where is the Baron’s room?”

“We’ve got to find it,” was the reply. “And, by Heaven! if the spy moves, I’ll put some lead into him!”

And together the pair stole forth on their tour of discovery.

The silent house was weird and full of distorted shadows. Through the long windows of stained glass which lit the great staircase the moon shone, its rays striking straight across the upper landing. Several of the doors were closed. They were bedrooms, evidently.

At one of them Ralph paused, raising his finger to command a halt. With the light touch of the expert he placed his fingers upon the door-handle, and, turning it, without raising the slightest click, he stole inside and stood in silence, listening attentively. All was dark, and there was no noise.

For a few moments he waited in patience. Then, hearing no sound of any sleeper, he switched on his little electric lamp, finding the apartment to be a small, well-furnished bedroom, but empty.

Both men examined it critically by the light of the torch, arriving at the conclusion that it contained nothing of worth.

Therefore, after Ralph had made a vicious slash at the satin-covered down quilt upon the bed, and also drawn his sharp knife across the carpet, severing it clearly, they went out to the next room, and to the next, with similar result.

Apparently the Baron did not sleep on that floor at all.

At last, however, they came to a locked door at the end of the corridor. A rapid examination showed that it had been locked from the inside, and the key was missing. Therefore, without further ado, Ralph knelt down at the lock, and with “The Eel” holding the little lamp, he commenced to attack the fastening with his skeleton keys. At such work he was an expert, for in three minutes the door stood open, and they found themselves standing in a small place, almost a box-room, for it only contained a plain little leather-covered table, set against the wall, and a chair; while in the opposite corner, upon a strong, wooden stand, stood a big, green-painted fireproof safe, about six feet in height.

Both men uttered ejaculations of surprise when their eyes fell upon it.

“The papers—the secrets of Germany—are in here!” Ralph exclaimed, in a whisper. “Come! There’s no time to lose. Let’s get at them. I hope this is the key. I suppose he preferred to keep it in hiding in the secret place in his writing-table than to carry it about with him.”

Taking the bright little key from his pocket, he examined it critically by the light of the lamp. Then he examined the maker’s name upon the brass plate on the safe.

“Yes,” he said, “I think I’m right. And if so, we shall each be richer by a couple of hundred thousand francs.”

“You don’t seem to like the Baron, Ralph!” whispered his friend, with a smile.

“Like him! Why, I hate him! I’ve been here before—as his visitor.”

“Is he really what you alleged—a German spy?”

“Yes. And I can prove it. Why, in doing what we are now we are acting as patriots, not as common burglars. We are acting for the honour of France.”

“And for our pockets, my dear fellow,” laughed his companion, as he bent beside him and watched him draw aside the brass cover of the lock and insert the key.

Gripping the big brass handle—for he knew the mechanism of that much-advertised make of safe—Ralph first turned it to the right. Then he turned the key, which worked evenly and easily, afterwards twisting the handle in an opposite direction.

Next moment, the bolts being shot back, the heavy, steel door came slowly open; but suddenly, at the same instant, a huge electric alarm bell in the main hall was set ringing.

At first so startled were they both that they did not move. But next second the truth dawned upon them.

“Diable! Let’s fly!” cried Ansell. “It’s all up! Across the garden and over the wall by the gate in the corner. Quick!”

Out of the room and down the stairs dashed the men like lightning. Along the corridor through the room by which they had entered, and out into the moonlight in the garden.

They heard loud shouts of alarm from the windows. Electric lights were being switched on everywhere, and loud cries were being raised of “Thieves! Assassins! Thieves!” while somebody fired three shots at them from a window as they crossed the grounds and sought concealment in the shadows.

As fast as their legs could carry them they made for the corner of the wall wherein was the Baron’s secret exit, and, scaling the wall with quick agility, were soon on the other side—and clear away.

As they ran back in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne they could hear shouts and cries of the Baron and his servants. Twice were revolvers emptied to attract the police, and then the hubbub grew fainter, and at last, beneath the deep shadow of a wall, they halted to regain breath.

“Never mind, Adolphe!” laughed Ralph; “we’ve got a nice haul, and it was an easy job, after all. I never expected the spy to have an alarm attached to the door of his safe. He’s a wary bird, after all!”

“Let’s get back to your place at once,” urged “The Eel.” “It will be growing light soon, and we ought to be in before anyone gets about.”

“You’re right. Jean will be wondering where we are—poor, innocent little thing,” he laughed, jeeringly. “I suppose she’s been fretting—but fretting always does a woman good.”

“Don’t speak like that, old chap,” said the other. “I don’t like to hear it.”

“Ah! You always take her part. You’re too chicken-hearted where women are concerned. A woman will be your ruin one day, mark me,” was Ralph’s reply. “But come along.”

And they hurried forward, in the direction of Ansell’s house.

Half an hour later, just before the first flush of dawn, the two men entered the weedy courtyard, and Ansell let himself in with his key. Their movements were stealthy; but, nevertheless, Mother Brouet, in suspicion of the truth, for she had known Fil-en-Quatre for several years, put her head out of her door, asking:

“Halloa, my boys! Something on—eh?”

“Yes, mother,” laughed Ralph lightly. “Something quite good. Keep your eyes open, and if anybody calls, we’re not receiving visitors—you understand! And there’s a couple of louis for you,” he added with a grin.

The old woman grasped the coins with her claw-like hand, saying:

“Tres bien, m’sieur,” and the head, adorned by curlers, disappeared.

The two men then mounted the stairs on tip-toe, and Ansell noiselessly unlocked the door of his apartment, believing Jean to be asleep.

But they found the lamp still burning as they had left it, the dirty plates still upon the table, and the atmosphere filled by the nauseous perfumes of petroleum.

Ralph’s quick eye caught the letter lying upon the table.

“Halloa! What’s this?” he cried, taking it up, glancing at the superscription, and tearing open the envelope.

He read through the brief, farewell message; then, crushing the paper in his hand fiercely, he stood for a few seconds without uttering a word.

“She’s gone!” he exclaimed at last; “and a good job, too. I’m freer without her; but, by Heaven! I’ll make her pay for deserting me like this! That I will!”

“Madame gone?” cried Carlier, starting in blank surprise.

“Yes.”

“Well, and I don’t wonder, after what you said to her last night. It was shameful.”

“That’s my own affair,” the other said. “It don’t concern you, so we need not discuss it.”

“Where has she gone?”

“I don’t know, and, moreover, I don’t care. You, however, seem to take a particular interest in her.”

“I hate to see a woman maltreated,” replied Adolphe frankly.

“I tell you it is no concern of yours,” replied the other, crushing Jean’s letter into his jacket pocket and tossing away his cap, while Adolphe re-bound his cut hand with the handkerchief which was already saturated with blood.

“Sit down and let’s have a drink,” said Ansell, lighting a candle, for the lamp was now very dim, and producing another bottle of red wine from the cupboard.

The pair seated themselves, and drank merrily to their own success, after which Ralph Ansell produced from his pockets the jewellery and the bundle of bank-notes, which he proceeded to examine.

Beneath the light of the single candle stuck in the tin candlestick the fine stones sparkled—diamonds, emeralds, and rubies—as “The American” produced them in a mass from his pocket and laid them upon the table.

“Quite a decent lot,” he remarked. “Old Levy will give us twenty thousand francs for them, if we pretend we’re not hard up. He went back to Amsterdam on Friday, but I’ll wire him later on, and get him over.”

“But we’re not hard up,” laughed “The Eel” with a grin of satisfaction.

“No—not quite,” answered his companion, taking off the india-rubber band from the bundle of notes and carefully counting them, one by one. There were seventy-five blue and pink notes of the Bank of France for one thousand francs each—or three thousand pounds, as well as the loose cash.

Ralph Ansell swallowed another glass of wine.

“I’m sorry we had such horribly bad luck with that safe,” he remarked. “But we were fortunate in getting away as we did. We were not a moment too soon, either.”

“They saw us cross the garden,” Adolphe said. “I don’t like being fired at.”

“By Jove! If I had met anyone he’d have gone down, I assure you,” declared Ralph. “I had my revolver ready.”

“A good job that we got out as we did. It is always a risky thing to try and get political papers. Remember the affair at the Austrian Ambassador’s, when a stranger offered poor Bonnemain twenty thousand francs to get certain documents? I kept watch outside the Embassy that night, and we were nearly caught—all of us.”

“Well—this is enough to keep the flag flying for a bit,” said Ansell, as he proceeded to divide the bank-notes, placing fifty in his own pocket and giving Adolphe twenty-five.

The men had some sharp words, as thieves always have when it comes to a division of the spoils, but Ansell claimed a double share because he had been the instigator of the affair.

Adolphe Carlier protested vehemently, gesticulating wildly; but at last, finding argument of no avail, he shrugged his shoulders and accepted the inevitable. He had had previous experience of Ralph’s overbearing American manners.

“Then you agree—eh?” asked Ansell, at last.

“I suppose I must,” was the response, as “The Eel” thrust a thousand pounds into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Must! Why, it is only fair!” declared Ansell. “Without my guidance you would never have brought off such a coup. Now this stuff,” he added, indicating the jewellery. “I’ll keep it till I get the money from old Levy—eh?”

“Very well,” replied his companion. “But half shares of that, you know.”

“Of course. That’s agreed,” responded the other, and both lifted the tumblers of wine in celebration of their success and safety.