"Let her stay," whispers Winnie. And of course Millie stays.

When they have filed out, Alan moves forward, his hand extended to close the door, and then he stops short, his att.i.tude unchanged, and listens.

There are voices outside, and approaching feet. He hears the remonstrance of a servant, and an impatient tone of command. And then a man strides into their presence, closely followed by two officers.

It is Van Vernet, his eyes flashing, his face triumphant; Van Vernet in _propia personne_, and wearing the dress of a gentleman.

He pauses before Alan, and delivers a mocking salute.

"Alan Warburton, you are my prisoner!"

With a cry of alarm, Leslie lifts herself from the couch. _She_ knows what these words mean.

Alan starts as he hears this cry, and moving a pace nearer Vernet, says, in a low tone:

"I will go with you, sir; but withdraw yourself and men from this room; I--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Alan, I have kept my word; I have brought back little Daisy."--page 421.]

Something touches his arm.

He turns to see Winnie close beside him, her face flushing and paling, her breath coming in quick gasps.

"Alan," she whispers, "what does he mean?"

Alan takes her quivering hand in his, and tenderly seeks to draw her back.

"He means what he says, Winnie. He is an officer of the law."

"A prisoner! _you!_ Oh, Alan, why, why?"

The tone of anguish, and the look in Alan's eyes, reveal to Vernet the situation. This is the woman beloved by Alan Warburton; now his triumph over the haughty aristocrat will be sweet indeed. Now he can strike through her. Stepping forward, he lays a hand upon Alan's arm.

"Mr. Warburton," he says sternly, "I must do my duty. Bob, bring the handcuffs."

As the officer thus addressed moves forward, Winnie French utters a cry of anguish, and flings herself before Alan.

"You shall not!" she cries wildly. "You dare not! What has he done?"

Vernet looks straight at his prisoner, and smiles triumphantly.

"Mr. Warburton is accused of murder," he says impressively.

"Murder!" Winnie turns and looks up into Alan's face. "Alan, oh, Alan, it is not true?"

"I am accused of murder, Winnie, but it is _not_ true."

"Oh, Alan! Alan! Alan!" She flings her arms about him clinging with pa.s.sionate despair, sobbing and moaning pitifully.

And Alan clasps her close and a glad light leaps into his eyes. For one moment he remembers nothing, save that, after all her a.s.sumed coldness, Winnie French loves him.

Still folding her in his arms, he half leads, half carries her to the divan where Leslie sits trembling and wringing her hands.

"Winnie, darling," he whispers, "do you really care?"

Then as Mrs. French extends her arms, he withdrew his clasp and turns once more toward Vernet.

"End this scene at once," he says haughtily. "I ask nothing at your hands, Van Vernet. Secure me at once; I am dangerous to you."

He extends his hands, and casts upon Vernet a look full of contempt. It causes the latter to feel that, somehow, his triumph is not quite complete after all. But he will not lose one single privilege, not abate one jot of his power. He takes the manacles from the hands of his a.s.sistant, and steps forward. No one else shall adjust them upon these white, slender wrists.

At that instant, as Leslie rises to her feet, uttering a cry of terror, there is a sudden commotion at the door; one of the officers is flung out of the way, and a strong hand strikes the handcuffs from Vernet's grasp.

He utters an imprecation and turning swiftly is face to face with Franz Francoise!

"You!" he exclaims hoa.r.s.ely. "How came you here? Boys--"

The two officers move forward. But the seeming Priest, who has stood in the back ground a silent spectator, now steps before them.

"Hold on!" he says; "don't burn your fingers, boys."

"Answer me," vociferates Vernet; "who brought you here, fellow? What--"

"Oh, it ain't the first time I've slipped through your fingers, Van Vernet," the new-comer says mockingly.

Then seeing the terror in Leslie's eyes, he s.n.a.t.c.hes the wig and moustache from his head and face, and turns toward Alan.

"Mr. Warburton," he says courteously, "I see that I am here in time. I trust that you have suffered nothing at the hands of my colleague, save his impertinence. Van, your game is ended. You've played it like a man, but you were in the wrong and you have failed. Thank your stars that your final blunder has been nipped in the bud. Alan Warburton is an innocent man. The murderer, if you choose to call him such, is safely lodged in jail by now."

But Van Vernet says never a word. He only gazes at the transformed ex-convict as if fascinated.

Another gaze is riveted upon him also. Leslie Warburton leans forward, her lips parted, her face eager; she seems listening rather than seeing.

Slowly a look of relieved intelligence creeps into her face, and swiftly the red blood suffuses cheek and brow. Then she comes forward, her hands extended.

"Mr. Stanhope, is it--was it _you_?"

"It is and was myself, Mrs. Warburton. There is no other Franz Francoise in existence. The part I a.s.sumed was a hideous one, but it was necessary."

"Stanhope!" At the name, Alan Warburton starts forward. "Are you Richard Stanhope?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Vernet utters an imprecation, and turning swiftly, is face to face with Franz Francoise!"--page 425.]

"I am." And then, as he catches the reflection of his half disguised self in a mirror, he gives vent to a short laugh. "We form quite a contrast, my friend Vernet and I," he says with a downward glance at his uncouth garments. "Mr. Warburton, we--for your brother's wife has done more than I--have brought back your little one. And I have managed to keep you out of the clutches of this mistaken Expert, or at least to prevent his 'grip' from doing you any serious damage. Of course you are anxious to hear all about it, but I am waited for at head-quarters; my story, to make it comprehensible, must needs be a long one, and I have asked Mr. Follingsbee to meet me there. He can soon put you in possession of the facts. Now a word of suggestion: This lady," glancing towards Leslie, "has been very ill; she is still weak. She has fought a brave fight, and but for her your little girl might still be missing.

She needs rest. Do not press her to tell her story now. When you have heard my report from Mr. Follingsbee, you will comprehend everything."

Leslie sinks back upon the divan, for she is indeed weak. Her face flushes and pales, her hands tremble, and her eyes follow the movements of the detective with strange fixedness. Then she catches little Daisy in her arms, and holding her thus, looks again at their rescuer.

Meantime, Van Vernet has seemed like a man dazed; has stood gazing from one to the other, listening, wondering, gnawing his thin under lip. But now he turns slowly and makes a signal to his two a.s.sistants, who, like himself, have been stunned into automatons by the sudden change of events.