"Stop, Vernet!" says Stanhope, noting the sign. "Just one word with you: Our difference, not to call it by a harsher name, our active difference began in this house, when, on the night of a certain masquerade, you contrived to delay me here while you stepped into my shoes. I discovered your scheme that night, and since then I have not scrupled to thwart you in every way; how, and by what means, it will give me pleasure to explain later. For the present, here, where our feud began, let it end.

I shall give a full history of our exploits, yours and mine, to our Chief, to Mr. Follingsbee, and of course to these now present. This much is in justice to myself, and to you. I think that I have influence enough at head-quarters to keep the story from going further, and--don't fancy me too magnanimous--I shall do this for the sake of Mrs.

Warburton, and of Mr. Alan Warburton, whom you have persecuted so persistently and mistakenly. As you have not succeeded in dragging their names into a public scandal, I shall withhold yours from public derision; and believe me when I say that our feud ends here. In the beginning, you took up the cudgel against me, to decide which is the better man. Put on the defensive, I have done my level best, and stand ready to be judged by my works. For the rest; I am saying too much here.

I do not wish nor intend to humiliate you unnecessarily. If you will wait for me outside, I can suggest something which you may profit by, if you choose."

There is nothing that Van Vernet can say in reply. He is conquered, and he knows it well. No scornful retort rises to his tongue, and there is little of his accustomed haughty grace in his step, as he turns silently and leaves the room, followed by his overawed, astounded and silent a.s.sistants.

At least he has the merit of knowing when he is defeated, and he accepts the inevitable in sullen silence.

Then Richard Stanhope turns again to Leslie.

"Madam," he says, with hesitating deference, "I have kept my word as best I could, and I leave you in the hands of your friends. Forgive me for any rudeness of mine, for any unpleasant moments I may have caused you, while I was playing the part of Franz Francoise. We could have won our battle in no other way. To-morrow, I will place in your hands, through Mr. Follingsbee, some papers which will, I believe, prove most valuable. I trust that you will never again have need of the aid of a detective. Still, should you ever require a service which I can render, I am always at your command."

With a hasty movement, as if in defiance of that which sought to hold her back, Leslie rises and extends both her hands.

"I cannot thank you," she says earnestly; "words are too weak. But no man will ever stand above you in my esteem. In time of trouble or danger, I could turn to you with fullest trust, not as a detective only, but as a friend, as a man; the truest of men, the bravest of the brave!"

Something in her voice vibrated pitifully, then choked her utterance.

She trembled violently, and all the life went out of her face.

As she sank back, Stanhope gently released her hands, and stepping aside to make way for Mrs. French and Winnie, said in a low tone to Alan:

"She has been terribly tried; do not let her talk until she is stronger.

She needs a physician's care."

"She shall have it," returned Alan, moving with Stanhope toward the door. "Mr. Stanhope, I--I know, through Mr. Follingsbee, of the interest you have taken in my welfare, but I realize to-day, as I could not before, how much your protection has been worth. I see what would have been the result of my remaining here. Vernet would have dragged me before the public, as a felon. But you are eager to go. I will not attempt to express my grat.i.tude now; I expect and intend to see you again, here and elsewhere."

He extended his hand and clasped that of Stanhope with a hearty pressure.

And then, with a sign to the sham Priest who had been his silent abettor, Stanhope hurried from the room and from the house.

Vernet was standing alone on the pavement. His two a.s.sistants, having been dismissed, were already some distance away.

"I have waited," he said, turning his face at Stanhope's approach, but without changing his position of body, "because I would not gratify you by running away. Have you anything further to add to your triumph?"

For a moment Stanhope's eyes seemed piercing him through and through.

Then he smiled.

"When our Chief told me, Van," he said slowly, "that you had determined to try your strength against mine, I felt hurt, but not angry. That was a disappointment; it was the game you played at the masquerade which has cost you this present humiliation. But for that night, I swear to you, I should never have interfered, never laid a straw in your way. Let us move on, Van, and talk as we go."

He made a signal to the disguised officer standing near him, and that individual, accepting his dismissal by a quick nod, moved down the street with an alacrity quite unbecoming to his clerical garb.

Then Stanhope and Vernet, Victor and Vanquished, turned their steps in the opposite direction.

For some moments Vernet paced on in silence, savagely gnawing at his under lip. Then professional curiosity broke through his chagrin.

"I should like to know how you did it," he said, his face flushing.

Stanhope shrugged his shoulders and favored his interlocutor with an uncouth grimace.

"Easy 'nuff," he said; "Hoop la!"

Vernet started and stared. "Silly Charlie!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"That's the ticket; how did I do the _role_?"

Vernet ground his teeth, and pondered over this startling bit of intelligence. At last:

"I understand why the Raid failed," he said, "but I don't comprehend--"

"Let me clear it up," broke in Stanhope. "You see, I had often explored those alleys, disguised as Silly Charlie; the character was one that admitted me everywhere. Before going to the masquerade, I had prepared for the night's work by putting my toilet articles in a carriage, and stationing it near the festive mansion. This I did to insure myself against possible delay, my programme being to drive to the agency, start my men, and then go on ahead of them, a.s.suming my disguise as I went, for the purpose of reconnoitring the grounds for the last time, before leading the men into the alleys. You delayed me a little, and I had to deal with your 'Chinaman' in such a way as to leave in his mind a very unfavorable opinion of 'Hail Columbia.' But I was there ahead of you after all; for particulars--ahem! consult your memory."

His eyes twinkled merrily at the recollection of Vernet in the cellar trap, and he suppressed a laugh with difficulty.

Again Vernet reddened and bit his under lip.

"Oh, you have outwitted me," he said bitterly, "but you will never be able to prove it was not Warburton who personated the Sailor that night."

"I won't try, for it was Warburton. I shall not explain his presence there, however; it was a mistake on his part, but he meant well. It was not he who did the killing."

"You are bent on clearing Warburton, but how will you prove his innocence?"

"By a witness who saw Papa Francoise strike the blow."

"Who?"

"A girl known as Rag-picker Nance. She was in the custody of the Francoises when I made my appearance among them, in the character of Franz. They were afraid of her and kept her drugged and drunk constantly. They wanted to be rid of her, and I took her off their hands one dark night--the same night, by the by, that came so near being your last, in that burning tenement. Heavens! but that old woman is a tigress! In spite of me, she managed to fire the building. It came near being the end of you."

Vernet turned and eyed him sharply.

"Was it you," he asked, "who brought me out?"

Stanhope blushed, and then laughed carelessly to conceal his embarra.s.sment.

"Well, yes," he admitted; "I'm sorry to say that it was. It was a great piece of impertinence on my part; but, you see, I had the advantage over the others of knowing that you were up there."

Vernet wore the look of a man who sees what he cannot comprehend.

"You're a riddle to me," he said. "You upset a man's plans and boast of it openly. You do him a monstrous favor, you save his life, and admit it with the sheepishness of a chicken-thief."

"Well, you see, I feel sheepish," confessed Stanhope flippantly. "I blush for so such Sunday-school sentiment. This habit of putting in my oar to interfere with the designs of Providence, is a weakness in a man of my cloth. Don't give me away, Van; _I'll_ never tell of it."

Light as were the words, Vernet well understood their meaning. The episode of the blazing tenement--his burnt-cork essay, with its ludicrous beginning and its almost tragical end--was to be kept a secret between them. When he could, in justice to others, Stanhope would spare his defeated rival.

Vernet's is not the only mind that would find it difficult to comprehend this generous nature, turning, for the sake of a less fortunate companion, his own brave deeds into a jest.

For some moments they walked on in silence. Then Vernet said:

"Of course, I see that there is a mystery between Alan Warburton and these Francoises, and that you intend to keep the mystery from publicity. But I don't see how you can prosecute this case without bringing Warburton into court."