"This kind and accommodatin' gent, wot I've so misunderstood, has got business with ye, old top."

Papa came slowly forward, his face expressive of fear rather than curiosity, followed by Mamma, fierce and watchful.

"You--you wanted _me_?" began Papa, hesitatingly.

"I have business with you, Papa Francoise. I want to talk with you privately, for your interest and mine, ahem." He looked toward Franz, and seeing the stolidity of this individual, inquired: "Who is that gentleman?"

His enunciation of the last word probably excited the wrath of Franz, for he came a step nearer, with an aggressive sneer.

"My name's Jimson, Mr. Cop, an' I'm a friend of the family. Anything else ye want ter know?"

With a shrug of the shoulder, Vernet turned toward Papa once more.

"I'd like to speak with you alone, Papa Francoise," he said significantly.

The mood of mocking insolence seemed deserting Franz, and a wrathful surliness manifested itself in the tone with which he addressed Papa.

"He'd like ter see ye alone, old Beelzebub, d'ye hear?"

Papa glanced hesitatingly from one to the other. He seemed to fear both the bound detective at his feet and the surly son who stood near him, with the menacing weapon in his hand, and growing rage and suspicion in his countenance.

Mamma's quick eye noted the look of suspicion and she interposed.

"Ye can speak afore this gentleman, Mr. Cop; he's a _very_ intimate friend."

A look of annoyance flashed in the eyes of Van Vernet. He hesitated a moment, and then said slowly:

"Does your intimate friend know anything about the affair that happened at your late residence near Rag alley, Papa Francoise?"

It was probably owing to the fact that the fumes of his recent potations were working still, with a secondary effect, and that from sleepy inertness he was pa.s.sing to a state of unreasoning disputatiousness, that Franz, evidently by no means relieved at the transfer of Vernet's attention from himself to Papa, seemed lashed into fury by the manner of the former.

"May be I know about that affair, and may be I don't," he retorted angrily. "Look here, coppy, you want to fly kind of light round me; I don't like yer style."

"I didn't come here especially to fascinate you, so I am not inconsolable. I might mention, however, by way of continuing our charming frankness, that _your_ style has not commended itself to me."

And Vernet emphasized his statement by a jerk of his fetters. "Now listen, my friends; I did not come here alone--half a dozen stout fellows are near at hand. If I do not return to them in five minutes more, you will see them here. If I call, you will see them sooner."

Franz raised the revolver to his eye and squinted along the barrel.

"Why don't you call, then?" he inquired.

"I don't want to make a fuss. My errand is a peaceable one. Unbind me; give me ten minutes alone with Papa here, and I leave you,--you have nothing to fear from me."

Franz shifted his position and seemed to hesitate.

"You can't keep me, and you dare not kill me," continued Vernet, noting the impression he had made. "All of you are in hiding from the police, and to kill an officer is conspicuous business--not like cracking the skull of a rag-picker, Papa Francoise. As for you, my lad, you've got a sort of State's-prison air about you. I could almost fancy you a chap I saw behind the bars not long ago, serving out a long sentence."

He paused to note the effect of his words, and was somewhat surprised to see Franz rest the revolver upon his knee, while he continued to gaze at him curiously.

Vernet had made, or intended to make, a sharp home thrust. In searching out the history of the Francoises, he had stumbled upon the fact that they had a son in prison; and the mutterings of Franz, while he lay upon the pallet, coupled with the fact that Franz and Papa wore upon their heads locks of the same fiery hue, had awakened in his mind a strong suspicion.

"Maybe ye might take a fancy ter think I'm that same feller," suggested Franz, after a moment's silence. "What then?"

"Then," replied Vernet, "every moment that you detain me here increases your own danger."

"Humph!" grunted Franz, as he rose and crossing to Mamma's side, began with her a whispered conversation.

Vernet watched them curiously for a moment, and then turned his face toward Papa.

"Look here, Francoise," he began, somewhat sternly, considering his position; "I've been looking for you ever since you left the old place, and I'm disposed to be friendly. Now, I may as well tell you that there is a rumor afloat, to the effect that your son, who was 'sent up' years ago, has lately broke jail, and that you harbor him. That does not concern me, however. This insolent fellow, if he is or is not your son, may go, so far as I am concerned, and no harm shall come to him or you through me. What I want of you, is a bit of information."

From the moment of his capture, Vernet had believed himself equal to the situation. Even now he scarcely felt that these people would dare to do him bodily injury. As may readily be surmised, his talk of confederates near at hand was all fiction. He had sought out Papa Francoise hoping to win from him something that would criminate Alan Warburton, and to use him as a tool. To arrest Papa might frustrate his own schemes, and, in the double game he was playing, Van Vernet was too wise to call upon the police for a.s.sistance or protection.

"You want--information?" queried Papa; "what about?"

Vernet hesitated, and then said slowly:

"I want to know all that you can tell me about the Sailor who killed Josef Siebel."

Papa gasped, stammered, and turned his face toward Franz, who now came forward, saying fiercely:

"Look here, my fly cop, afore ye ask any more important questions, just answer a few."

"Take care, jail bird!" cried Vernet, enraged at his persistent interference, "or I may give the police a chance to ask you a question too many!"

"Ye've got to git out of my clutches first," hissed Franz Francoise, "and yer chances fer that are slim!"

As the young ruffian bent close to him, Vernet, for the first time, fully realized his danger. But his cry for help was smothered by the hands of his captor, and in another moment he was gagged by the expeditious fingers of the old woman, and his head and face closely m.u.f.fled in a dirty cloth from the nearest pallet.

"There," said Mamma, rising from her knees with a grin of triumph, "we've got him fast. Open the door, old man, he's going into the closet for--"

"For a little while," put in Franz, significantly.

Into a rear room, across this, and into the dark hole, which Mamma had dignified by the name of closet, they carried their luckless prisoner, bound beyond hope of self-deliverance, gagged almost to suffocation, his eyes blinded to any ray of light, his ears m.u.f.fled to any sound that might penetrate his dungeon.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

FRANZ FRANCOISE'S GENERALSHIP.

When the three had returned to the outer room, Papa turned anxiously toward his hopeful son.

"Franz, my boy," he began, in a quavering voice, "if there should be cops outside--"

"Ye're the same whinin' old coward, ain't ye?" commented Franz, as he favored his father with a contemptuous glance. "I've seen a good many bad eggs, but blow me if I ever seed one like ye! Why, in the name o'

blazes, air ye more afraid of a cop than you'd be o' the hangman?"