While Alan and Winnie, protected by their temporary armistice, were hurrying toward the modest abode of Mrs. French, each intent upon solving as soon as possible the riddle of Leslie's flight, the Francoises were holding high council in the kitchen of their most recent habitation.

In all the lists of professional criminals, there were not two who had been, from their very earliest adventure, more successful in evading the police than Papa and Mamma Francoise.

Papa, although in the face of actual, present danger he was the greater coward of the two, possessed a rare talent for scheming, and laying cunning plans to baffle the too curious. And Mamma's executive ability was very strong, of its kind. In the face of danger, Mamma's furious temper and animal courage stood them in good stead. When a new scheme was on foot, Papa took the lead.

As for Franz, he, as we have seen, had not been so successful in evading the representatives of law and order. And he had returned, having escaped from durance vile, bringing with him a strangely developed stock of his Mother's fierceness and his Father's cunning.

It was a part of Papa's policy to be, at all times, provided with a "retreat." Not content with an abiding-place for the present, the pair had always, somewhere within an easy distance from their present abode, a second haven, fitted with the commonest necessaries of life, but seldom anything more, and always ready to receive them. Hence, in fleeing from the scene of the Siebel affray, they had gone to the attic which stood ready to shelter them, where they had been traced by Vernet, and followed by Franz. And on the night when they had left Van Vernet to a fiery death, they had flown straight to another ready refuge.

This time it was a cottage, old and shabby, but in a respectable quarter on the remotest outskirts of the city. This cottage, like the B--street tenement, stood quite isolated from its neighbors, for it was one of Papa's fine points to choose ever a solitary location, or else lose himself in a locality where humanity swarmed thickest, and where each was too eager in his own struggle for existence to be anxious or curious about the affairs of his neighbors.

This cottage, then, was shabby enough, but not so shabby as their former dwelling, either within or without. Neither did Papa and Mamma present quite so uncanny an appearance as before. They were somewhat cleaner, a trifle better clad, and somewhat changed in their general aspect, for here they were presuming themselves to be "poor but honest"

working people, like their neighbors.

In this pretence they were ably supported by Franz, when he was sober.

And drunkenness not being strictly confined to the wealthier cla.s.ses, he cast no discredit upon the honesty of his parents by being frequently drunk.

Papa and Mamma were regaling themselves with a late supper, consisting princ.i.p.ally of beer and "Dutch bread," and as usual, when _tete-a-tete_, they were engaged in a lively discussion.

"I don't like the way that boy goes on," remarks Mamma, as she cuts for herself a slice of the bread.

Papa sets down his empty beer gla.s.s, and tilts back his chair.

"Don't ye?" he queries carelessly.

"No, I don't," retorts Mamma with increasing energy. "He's getting too reckless, and he swigs too much."

"_That's_ a fact," murmurs Papa, glancing affectionately at the beer pitcher.

"He'd ought ter lay low for a good while yet," goes on Mamma, "instead of prowling off at all hours of the day and night. Why, he's gone more'n he's here."

Papa Francoise brought his chair back into regular position with a slow movement, and leaning his two elbows upon the table, leered across at Mamma.

"Look here, old un," he said slowly, "that fellow's just knocked off eight or ten years in limbo, and don't you s'pose he prizes his liberty? If he can't keep clear o' cops and beaks after _his_ experience, he ain't no son of mine. Don't you worry about our Franzy; he's got more brains than you an' me put together. I'm blest if I know how he come by such a stock. I'm beginning to take pride in the lad."

"Well," rejoins Mamma viciously, "he ain't much like _you_; if he was, there wouldn't be so much to be proud of."

"That's a fact," a.s.sented Papa cheerfully. "He ain't like me; he sort o'

generally resembles both of us. And I'm blest if he ain't better lookin'

than we two together."

"Franzy's changed," sighs Mamma; "he ain't the same boy he uste to be.

If it wa'n't fer his drinkin' and swearin', I wouldn't hardly know him."

"Course not; nor ye didn't know him till he interduced himself. No more did I. When a feller gets sent up fer fifteen years, and spends ten out of the fifteen tryin' to contrive a way to get back to his old Pappy and Mammy, it's apt to change him some. Franzy's improved, he is. He's cut some eye-teeth. Ah, what a help he'd be, if I could only git past these snags and back to my old business!"

"Yes," sighed Mamma, and then suddenly suspended her speech as a lively, and not unmusical, whistle sounded near at hand.

"That's him," she said, pushing back her chair and rising. "He seems to be comin' good-natured." And she hastened to admit the Prodigal, who, if he had returned in good spirits, had not brought them all on the outside, for as he entered the room with a cheerful smirk and unsteady step, Papa murmured aside:

"Our dear boy's drunk agin."

Unmindful of Mamma's anxious questions concerning his whereabouts, Franzy took the chair she had just vacated, and began a survey of the table.

"Beer!" he said contemptuously. "I wouldn't drink beer, not--"

"Not when you have drank too much fire-water already, Franzy,"

supplemented Papa, with a grin, at the same time drawing the pitcher nearer to himself. "No, my boy, I wouldn't if--if I were you."

Franz utters a half maudlin laugh, and turns to the old woman.

"Is this all yer eatables?" he asks thickly. "Bring us somethin' else."

"Yes," chimes in Papa, "Franzy's used ter first-cla.s.s fare, old un; bring him something good."

Mamma moves about, placing before her Prodigal the best food at hand, and presently the three are gathered about the table again, a very social family group.

But by-and-by Mamma's quick ear catches a sound outside.

"Some one's coming," she says in a sharp whisper. "I wonder--"

She stops short and goes to a window, followed by Franz, who peers curiously over her shoulder.

"It's a woman," he says, a moment later.

"Hush, Franzy," says Mamma sharply. And then she goes quickly to the door.

It is a woman who enters; a woman draped in black. She throws back her shrouding veil and the pure pale face of Leslie Warburton is revealed.

Franz Francoise utters a sharp e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n, and then as Papa's hand presses upon his arm, he relapses into silence and draws back step by step.

"Ah!" cries Mamma, starting with extended hands to seize upon the new-comer; "ah! it's our own dear girl!"

But Leslie repulses the proffered embrace, and moves aside.

"Wait," she says coldly; "wait." And she looks inquiringly at Franz.

"You do not know how and why I come."

"No matter why you come, dear child,"--it is Papa, speaking in his oiliest accents--"we are glad to see you; very glad."

Again Leslie's eyes rest upon Franz, and Mamma says:

"Oh, speak out, my dear. This is our boy, Franz; your brother, my child."

"Yes," Papa chimes in blithely, "how beautiful this is; how delightful!"

Leslie favors Franz with a steady look, and turns to Mamma.

"Then I am not your only child," she says, with a proud curl of the lip.