"No one. I obtained my information from a servant. He sent up his card to Alan, who refused to meet him."

"Ah!" Stanhope turned toward the door, putting the note in his pocket as he did so. Suddenly he paused, his eyes resting upon the portrait of Alan Warburton.

"That is very imprudent," he said.

"I--I don't understand."

"That picture. It must be removed." Then turning sharply toward her: "Are there other pictures of Mr. Alan Warburton in this house?"

"No; this is the only recent portrait."

He sat down and looked at the picture intently.

"Van Vernet has been here, you tell me. Can he have seen _that_?"

Fully alive now to the delicacy and danger of the situation, Leslie lifted her hand and turned toward the door. "Wait," she said, and went swiftly out.

"So," muttered Stanhope, as he again contemplated the picture, "a square foot of canvas can spoil all my plans. If Van has seen _this_, my work becomes doubly hard, and Warburton's case a desperate one."

While he pondered, Leslie came softly back, and stood before him.

"It is as bad as you feared," she said, tremulously. "Van Vernet was received in this very room, the servant tells me. He saw the picture, examined it closely, and asked the name of the original."

"Then," said Stanhope, rising, "the picture need not be removed. It has done all the mischief it can. To remove it now would only make a suspicion a certainty. Listen, madam, and as soon as possible report what I tell you to Alan Warburton. A short time ago, Mamma Francoise and one of her tools left the note I hold, at your bas.e.m.e.nt-door. Van Vernet, who was watching near here, saw them and followed them."

"Oh!"

"He has seen that picture. Tell your brother-in-law that Van Vernet has seen it and, doubtless, has traced the resemblance between it and the fugitive Sailor; tell him that Vernet is now on the track of the Francoises, who, if found, will be used to convict him of murder."

"But--Alan is not guilty."

"Are you _sure_ of that?"

"I--I--" She faltered and was silent.

"Mrs. Warburton," he asked, slowly, "do you know _who_ struck that blow?"

She trembled violently, and her face turned ashen white.

"I can't tell! I don't know!" she cried wildly. "It was a moment of confusion, but--it was not--oh, no, no, it was _not_ Alan!"

Not a little surprised at this incoherent outburst, Stanhope looked her keenly in the face, a new thought taking possession of his mind.

Could it be that she, in the desperation of the moment, in her struggle for safety, had stricken that cruel blow? Such things had been. Women as frail, in the strength born of desperation, had wielded still more savage weapons with fatal effect.

The question, who killed Josef Siebel? was becoming a riddle.

"Let that subject drop," said Stanhope, withdrawing his eyes from her face. "Tell your brother-in-law of his danger, but do not make use of my name. He knows nothing about me. For yourself, obey no summons like this you have just received. You need not make use of my newspaper-telegraph now. What I saw this morning, showed me the necessity for instant action. There is one thing more: tell Alan Warburton that now, with Vernet's eye upon him, there will be no safety in flight. Let him remain here, but tell him, above all, to shun interviews with strangers, be their errand what it will. Let no one approach him whom he does not know to be a friend. After your husband's funeral, you too had better observe this same caution. Admit _no strangers_ to your presence."

"But you--"

"I shall not apply for admittance; I am going away. Before you see me again, I trust your troubles will have ended."

"And little Daisy?"

"We shall find her, I hope. Mrs. Warburton, time presses; remember my instructions and my warning. Good-morning."

He moved toward the door, turned again, and said:

"One thing more; see that you and your household avoid any movement that might seem, to a watcher, suspicious. Vernet keeps this house under surveillance, night and day. He is a foe to fear. Once more, good-by."

It was long past noon when Van Vernet, weary but triumphant, reappeared upon the fashionable street where stood the Warburton mansion.

He had been successful beyond his utmost expectations. Not only had he succeeded in tracking the two women to their hiding-place, for it could scarcely be called their home, but he had also satisfied himself that the elder woman was indeed and in truth Mamma Francoise; and that Papa Francoise was also sheltered by the tumble-down roof under which the old woman and her companion had pa.s.sed from his sight.

Vernet was tired with his long promenade at the heels of the two sham beggars, and he resolved to give the mansion a brief reconnoitring glance and then to turn the watch over to a subordinate.

Accordingly he sauntered down the street, noting as he walked the unchanged aspect of the shut-up house. He was still a few paces away, when a vehicle came swiftly down the street, rolling on noiseless wheels.

It was an undertaker's van, and it came to a halt before the door of the Warburton mansion. Two men were seated upon the van, and as one of them dismounted and ascended the stately steps, the other, getting down in more leisurely fashion, opened the door in the end of the vehicle, disclosing to the view of Vernet, who by this time was near enough to see, a magnificent casket.

In another moment, the man who had gone to announce their arrival came down the steps, accompanied by a servant, and together the three carefully drew the casket from the van.

Vernet's quick eye detected the fact that it was heavy, and his quicker brain caught at an opportunity. Stepping to the side of the man who seemed to hold the heaviest weight, he proffered his a.s.sistance. It was promptly accepted, and, together, the four lifted the splendid casket, and carried it into the wide hall.

What is it that causes Van Vernet's eyes to gleam, and his lips to twitch with some new, strange excitement, as they put the casket down?

His gaze rests upon it as if fascinated.

Archibald Warburton, the man in the black and scarlet domino, the man who had employed him to watch the movements of Leslie Warburton, was six-foot tall. And this casket--it was made for a much shorter, a much smaller man!

If _this_ were intended for Archibald Warburton, who, then, was the six-foot masker?

With eyes aglow, and firmly-compressed lips, Van Vernet cast a last glance at the casket and the name, Archibald Warburton, on the plate.

Then turning away, he followed the two undertakers from the house.

At the foot of the steps he paused, and looked up at the closed windows with the face of a man who saw long-looked-for daylight through a cloud of mist.

"Ah, Alan Warburton," he muttered, "_I have you now_!"

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.