Chapter 3

Grace Duvall's first inclination, on finding herself en route for
Europe, without her husband, was to send him a wireless, advising him of
her movements. Then she decided, for several reasons, not to do so.
Chief among these was the fear that such a startling piece of news would
be likely to cause him a great deal of unnecessary anxiety. She knew
that she could never hope to explain matters, within the limits of a
marconigram. And then, too, it was highly inadvisable, she knew, to
mention in a wireless message the real reason which had caused her to
leave home.

So she decided to make the best of the matter, realizing that within a
few days, she would see Richard in Paris, and explain everything to his
satisfaction.

Immediately on reaching Paris, she drove to the office of the Prefect of
Police, and sent in her card to Monsieur Lefevre. She thought it
possible that he would expect her, as his agent in Washington would no
doubt have communicated with him. Nor was she mistaken.

He rushed into the anteroom as soon as he received her card, and
embraced her with true Gallic fervor, kissing her on both cheeks until
she blushed. Then he drew her into his private office.

"Where is your husband?" he asked, eagerly, as soon as Grace was seated.

"I--I do not know. Probably on his way to Paris."

"But--my dear child! Did he not then come with you?"

"No. He--he had other business."

"Other business! But I understood that he had temporarily retired." The
Prefect seemed greatly astonished.

"So he had; but an old friend, Mr. Stapleton"--

Lefevre did not allow her to finish. "Stapleton!" he fairly shouted. "He
is employed by him? Mon Dieu!"

"Why not?" asked Grace in surprise.

"But--it was for that very case that I desired his assistance. And by
this Stapleton, who cables that the whole police force of Paris are a
lot of jumping jacks! Sacre! It is insufferable!"

"You wanted my husband for the same case?"

"Assuredly! What else? The child of this pig of a millionaire is
stolen--what you call--kidnapped! We have been unable to find the
slightest clue. I am in despair. My men assure me that it is the work of
an American gang. I conceive the hope that Monsieur Duvall may know
these men--that he may be in possession of information that will lead to
their capture. This rich American, he has spoken with contempt of the
Paris police. The efficiency of my office is questioned. My honor is at
stake. I send for my friend Duvall, to assist me, and--sacre!--I find
him already working for this man who has insulted me. It is monstrous!"

Grace could scarcely repress a smile. How excessively French the Prefect
was, after all. "My husband did not know, when he agreed to take the
case for Mr. Stapleton, that you wanted him. He does not know it now. He
has not yet received your message."

"Then he does not know that you are in Paris?"

"No. I thought he would be crossing on the same boat. When I found that
he wasn't, my first thought was to send him a wireless. Then I realized
that I couldn't do so, without saying something about the business that
had called me to Paris--without, in fact, mentioning you. I feared to do
this--for there are so many people nowadays tapping the wireless. I
thought it better to keep the matter a secret."

"And you did quite right. I wanted your husband to take up this case,
quite independently, and without it being known to anyone that he was in
my employ." He paused for a moment in deep thought. "No doubt his
employment by Mr. Stapleton is to be kept equally secret."

"I suppose so. He asked me not to say anything about it. I had to tell
you, to explain matters."

"And he doesn't know that you are in Paris?" The Prefect gave a sudden
laugh. "_Ma foi!_--what a joke!"

"A joke?"

"Assuredly! Don't you see? I am going to ask _you_ to take up this case,
yourself. I must use every means to recover the child of this Stapleton,
before others do so for him. My professional pride will not permit me to
be beaten. If I can't have your husband, at least I shall have you."

"But--I shall be working in opposition to him."

"Not in opposition. You will both have the same object in view--the
recovery of Mr. Stapleton's boy. Whichever of you does so first, the
result will be the same--the boy will be restored to his parents. But I
want you, my child, to be the one to do this."

"But, Monsieur Lefevre, I could not hope to accomplish anything--where
trained men have failed."

"Who knows? I remember well the assistance you gave us, in the matter of
the ivory snuff box. Without your help, we should never have recovered
it. I have faith in a woman's intuition. You will find this child for
me, and give your husband the surprise of his life."

"But," said Grace, smiling mischievously at the prospect which opened
before her, "suppose he should see me?"

"You must disguise yourself somewhat. Change the color of your hair; it
is easily done--here in Paris." The Prefect laughed. "A slight
alteration in appearance only will be necessary. And do not recognize
your husband, should you meet him face to face. That is most important."

"Why?"

"Because, should he become convinced that it is really you, I fear he
would insist upon your dropping the case entirely, and that would not
suit my plans at all. Come, my child." The Prefect's eyes twinkled with
amusement. "Do this thing for me. It will be a little joke, between us.
The honeymoon detectives, I called you, once. What an amusing thing,
that now you should be working in competition with each other, on the
same case!" He began to laugh heartily.

"Well," said Grace, her sense of mischief getting the better of her,
"now that I'm here, I suppose I might as well keep busy. Richard won't
be here for two days, and I may find out something in that time."

"Excellent!" The Prefect clapped his hand smartly upon his knee. "You
have two days' start. In two days, much may be accomplished. Come, let
us go over the case in detail."

An hour later, Grace left the Prefect's office in a taxicab, having
arranged to have her baggage sent to Monsieur Lefevre's house, where she
was to stay while in Paris. Her previous acquaintance with Madame
Lefevre made this an ideal arrangement. She was to pose as a friend, in
Paris on a visit.

She ordered the driver of the taxicab to take her to Mr. Stapleton's
house in the Avenue Kleber.

She found Mrs. Stapleton to be a very pretty and stylish woman of
thirty; whose beauty, however, was sadly marred by the intense suffering
through which she was passing. The poor creature had scarcely slept for
over a week, and her distress was pitiable.

She answered Grace's questions as well as she could, under the
circumstances. There was, after all, little to say. The nurse, it
appeared, stuck to her story--that the boy had vanished, in the
twinkling of an eye, while her back had been turned for but a few
moments. Mrs. Stapleton could offer no explanation--attempted none.

"It is all so mysterious--so terrible!" she cried. "Poor Mary--she is
too ill to see you, I fear, or I would have her tell you the story
herself."

"Too ill?" inquired Grace, who had come more to question the maid, than
Mrs. Stapleton. "What is the matter with her?"

"They tried to poison her--last Friday."

"They? Who?"

"I do not know. She went out for a walk. The poor woman was half dead,
from nervous exhaustion and loss of sleep. She tells me that she stopped
to get a cup of chocolate at a cafe in the Rue St. Honore. After that
she came back to the Champs Elysees, and sat upon a bench. She began
suddenly to feel deathly ill, and, calling a cab, was driven home. When
she arrived here, she was unconscious, and had to be carried to her room
by the servants. She has been in bed ever since. I am glad to say,
however, that she is better, and I think she could see you, by morning."

Grace left the Stapleton house, feeling somewhat baffled. The more she
heard of this curious affair, the more inexplicable it seemed. She had
hoped to visit the scene of the kidnapping, in company with the nurse,
and examine the spot with her own eyes. This she now realized she could
not do until the following day. She was walking in the direction of the
Arc de Triomphe, revolving the affair in her mind, when a young man,
evidently a Frenchman, of good appearance and not unpleasant face, came
up beside her, bowed politely, and in excellent English asked her
regarding Mary Lanahan.

"Miss Lanahan--is she better?" he inquired.

"Who are you, monsieur?" asked Grace, suppressing her inclination to
resent the man's action, in her hope that she might learn something from
him of value. His question showed Grace at once that he was acquainted
with at least one member of the Stapleton household.

"I am a friend of Miss Lanahan's," the man replied. "I hear that she is
ill. I saw you enter and leave the house, and I ventured to ask you if
she is better."

"I was told that she is. I did not see her."

A peculiar expression crossed the young man's face; but Grace could not
determine, so fleeting was it, whether it indicated pleasure or
disappointment.

They walked along in silence for a few moments, and had almost reached
the arch, when a ragged little urchin, a veritable Paris gamin, came up
to Grace's companion and thrust a crumpled bit of paper into his hand,
then darted off, whistling shrilly.

The man looked after him a moment, then examined the note. Whatever its
contents, they made a startling impression upon him. He looked about, an
expression of fear upon his face, turned to Grace with a hurried bow,
and a quick good evening, and at once walked off in the opposite
direction at full speed, at the same time fumbling in the breast pocket
of his coat, as though searching for something in it. In his efforts, he
dropped several papers to the street. Grace watched him as he picked
them hurriedly up and moved off into the gathering darkness.

She fancied that one of the bits of paper had escaped his notice, and,
on going back to the spot, found that she was correct. A small visiting
card lay upon the sidewalk. She picked it up, and read the name as she
walked away. It was Alphonse Valentin, Boulevard St. Michel.

Grace slipped the card into her pocketbook. The man's name meant nothing
to her--she fancied that he was some friend of Miss Lanahan's, concerned
about her condition. Yet why did he not inquire for her at the house, in
the ordinary way? And why should the note, handed to him by the street
urchin, have caused him such evident alarm?

She glanced at her watch, and saw that it was close to seven o'clock.
She had intended to return to Monsieur Lefevre's for dinner; but a
sudden determination to find out more about this man Valentin caused her
to proceed at once to a hotel near the Louvre, where she ate her dinner
alone.

An hour later she descended from a cab at the number on the Boulevard
St. Michel, which was inscribed upon Alphonse Valentin's card.

The place was a dingy old building, the main floor of which was occupied
by a dealer in cheese. A narrow doorway at one side gave access to the
upper floors. Grace rang the bell, and waited in some trepidation. This
going about Paris at night was rather an unusual experience. She thought
of the simple joys of her life at home, and for a moment regretted that
she had not stayed there. The opening of the door interrupted her
thoughts.

The woman who stood in the hallway regarded her without particular
interest, and inquired her business. "I wish to see Monsieur Valentin,"
said Grace.

"He is not in."

"Then I will wait. I must see him. He expects me."

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "As you wish, mademoiselle. Come this
way." She led Grace up a flight of stairs, and indicated a door at the
rear of the upper hall. "That is Monsieur Valentin's room." Then she
turned away, apparently quite indifferent as to whether Grace entered or
not.

The latter placed her hand on the knob of the door, and slowly pushed it
open. The room was dark; but the light from the rear windows rendered
the objects within it faintly visible. Upon the table stood a lamp. With
some difficulty the girl succeeded in finding a match, and lit it.

The light of the lamp disclosed a rather large room, with a small
alcove in the rear, containing a bed. The alcove was curtained off from
the main room. Grace, however, did not spend much time in examining her
surroundings. A photograph on the table at once attracted her
attention--not because it represented anyone she knew, but because,
across the bottom of it, was inscribed, in a feminine hand, "Mary
Lanahan."

She had just completed her examination of the photograph, when two other
objects attracted her attention. One was a crumpled bit of paper, upon
which a few words were scrawled in lead-pencil. They were, "I am
suspicious of Francois. Watch him." The note was unsigned.

The third object upon the table which caught Grace's attention was a box
of cigarettes, open, and nearly full. They were small gold-tipped
affairs, of the kind generally used by women, and it was this
peculiarity that at first attracted her attention. She thought it
strange, that a man should use such cigarettes. She looked at the box,
and observed that they were of American make.

Illustration: Once inside he made without hesitation for the table,
picked up the box of cigarettes and thrust it into his pocket.

Idly she took up one of the cigarettes, and held it in her fingers. She
read the name of the brand, printed upon the paper wrapper, and was
about to drop it back into the box, when she heard a curious rasping
noise outside one of the rear windows. It sounded as though someone were
climbing the wall of the house. Instinctively she shrank back and
concealed herself behind one of the curtains which hung before the
alcove door.

The rasping and scraping continued for some little time, and presently
Grace, peering through the space between the curtains, saw a face appear
at one of the windows. It was a determined face, heavily bearded, dark,
evil looking. Its gleaming eyes swept the room with cautious care, then,
evidently satisfied that it was unoccupied, their owner began
noiselessly to raise the sash of the window.

It was slow work. Several minutes passed before the man succeeded in
raising the sash sufficiently to permit him to crawl into the room. Once
inside, he made without hesitation for the table, glanced over its
contents, picked up the box of cigarettes and thrust it into his pocket,
and then, without paying the least attention to anything else, walked
quickly to the door of the room and passed out into the hall.

The girl waited for a moment, then stepped into the light. As she did
so, she realized that she held in her hand one of the gold-tipped
cigarettes she had taken from the box. She quickly thrust it into her
pocketbook, and, with sudden decision, left the room and descended the
stairs. She had an instinctive feeling that the man who had stolen the
cigarettes was in some way connected with the kidnapping of the
Stapleton child. She determined to follow him, leaving the interview
with Alphonse Valentin to another time.

She left the house, and saw the man going down the Boulevard some fifty
feet in advance of her. She walked along after him, pretending to be
totally uninterested in her surroundings, while at the same time keeping
a sharp watch upon him.

He seemed in somewhat of a hurry, and walked briskly along, looking
neither to left nor to right. Grace kept as close to him as she dared,
without running the risk of detection. The walk was a long one. When
half an hour had passed, the girl saw that they were entering the Champs
Elysees. The Seine they had long since crossed by the Pont Neuf. Up the
brilliantly lighted avenue they went, toward Arc de Triomphe. At the
corner of the Avenue Kleber, the man turned to the left. Grace followed,
wondering where the chase would lead next. To her astonishment, the man
disappeared suddenly through a gate which formed the servants' entrance
of one of the stately houses which fronted on the avenue. She looked up.
It was the house of Mr. Stapleton!