"Oh!"

"Beale shadowed him, first, to the residence of Mr. Follingsbee, the lawyer."

"Umph!" The Chief started, then checked himself, and sank back in his chair.

"Here," continued Sanford, "he had a man on guard. They exchanged a few words, and Vernet went away, the shadower staying near the lawyer's house. From there Vernet went direct to Warburton Place."

The Chief bit his lips and stirred uneasily.

"Here he had another shadower. They also conferred together. Then Vernet took a carriage and went East to the suburbs; out to the very edge of the city, where the houses are scattering and inhabited by poor laborers. At the end of K. street, he left his carriage, and went on foot to a little saloon, the farthest out of any in that vicinity. There he had a long talk with a fellow who seemed to be personating a bricklayer. He left the saloon and went back to his carriage, seemingly in high spirits, and the bricklayer departed in the opposite direction."

"Away from the city?"

"Yes; toward the furthermost houses."

The Chief bent his head and meditated.

"This happened, when?" he asked.

"Yesterday."

"And Beale; what did he do?"

"Set three men to watch three men. One at Follingsbee's, one at Warburton Place, and one at the foot of K. street."

"Good; and these shadowers of Vernet's--could Beale identify either of them?"

"No; he is sure they do not belong to us, and were never among our men."

"Very well. Beale has done famously. Let him keep a strict watch until further orders."

Once more the Chief knits his brow and ponders. The mystery grows deeper, and he finds in it ample food for meditation.

But he is doomed to interruption. This time it is Vernet's report.

He eyes it askance, and lays it upon the desk beside him. Just now it is less interesting, less important, than his own thoughts.

But again his door opens. He lifts his head with a trace of annoyance.

It is George, the office boy. He comes forward and proffers a note to his Chief.

The latter takes it slowly, looks languidly at the superscription, then breaks the seal.

One glance, and the expression of annoyance and languor is gone; the eyes brighten, and the whole man is alive with interest.

And yet the note contains only these two lines:

Send three good men, in plain clothes, to the last saloon at the foot of K. street, 2 P. M. sharp.

d.i.c.k S.

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es the Chief, "d.i.c.k at last! Something is going to happen."

And then he calls the office boy back.

"Go to this address," he says, hastily writing upon a card; "ask for Mr.

Parks, and say to him that I am obliged to beg himself and friend to put off their interview with me until this afternoon, say three o'clock."

When the boy had departed, he turned to the desk and took up Vernet's report. As he opened it, he frowned and muttered:

"Vernet's doing some queer work. If it were any one else, I should say he was in a muddle. As it is, I shall not feel sure that all is right until I know what his man[oe]uvres mean. I'll have no more interviews until I have seen Follingsbee, and studied this matter out."

CHAPTER LV.

THE LAST MOMENT.

At two P. M. of the same day, the day that witnessed Alan Warburton's return to his own, and the Chief's perplexity, there is an ominous stillness brooding about the Francoise dwelling.

In the outer room, Papa Francoise is alone, and, if one may judge from his restlessness, not much relishing his solitude.

The room is cleaner than usual. All about it an awkward attempt at tidiness is visible. Papa, too, is less unkempt than common, seeming to have made a stout effort at old-time respectability. But he cannot a.s.sume a virtuous and respectable calm, a comfortable repose.

He goes to the window and peers anxiously into the street. Sometimes he opens the outer door, and thrusts his head half out to gaze along the thoroughfare cityward. And then he goes across the room, and opens the door of a big dingy closet: looks within, closes the door quietly, and tiptoes back to the window.

There is nothing remarkable in that closet. It is dark and dirty. A few shabby garments are hanging on the wall, and a pallet occupies the floor, looking as if it had been carelessly flung there and not yet prepared for its occupant.

Papa seems to note this. Stooping down, he smoothens out the ragged blanket and straightens the dirty mattress, c.o.c.king his head on one side to note the improvement thus made. Then he goes back to the window, and again looks out. With every pa.s.sing moment he grows more and more disquieted.

In the inner room, Leslie Warburton sits alone. Her arms are crossed upon the rough table beside her; her head is bowed upon her arms; her att.i.tude betokens weariness and dejection. By and by she lifts her face, and it is very pale, very sad, very weary. But above all, it is very calm.

Since the day when Stanhope's message brought her new hope, she has played her part bravely. Weak in body, hara.s.sed in mind, filled with constantly-increasing loathing for the people who are her only companions, utterly unable to guess at the meaning of Stanhope's message--she has battled with illness, and fought off despair, fully realizing that in him was her last hope, her only chance for succor; and fully resolved to cling to this last hope, and to aid her helper in the only way she could--by doing his bidding.

"Seem to submit," he said. She had submitted. "Let them play their game to the very last." She had made no resistance.

And now the end had come. She had obeyed in all things. And to-day the Francoises were jubilant. To-day Leslie Warburton, by her own consent, was to marry Franz Francoise.

It was the last day, the last hour; and Leslie's strength and courage are sorely tried.

"Trust all to me," he had said. "When the right time comes, I will be at hand."

Leslie arose, and paced slowly up and down her narrow room, feeling her heart almost stop its beating. Had she not trusted to him? trusted blindly; and now--had not the right time come? Was it not the only time?

And where was Stanhope? "If he should fail me!" she moaned, "if he should fail me after all!"