"And my daughter, my little girl--did _she_ think that, too?"

"Your daughter?" Mr. Follingsbee turns an inquiring look upon the Chief.

"Pardon me, I--I don't understand."

"My child--I sent my child to her aunt--twenty years ago."

Again Mr. Follingsbee looks from one face to the other inquiringly, and an expression of apprehension crosses the face of the Chief.

"Mr. Ainsworth's daughter was less than three years old when she was sent to Mr. Uliman's care. In searching out the history of this family, I learn that they left an adopted daughter," the Chief explained.

Mr. Follingsbee coughs nervously.

"They left such a daughter," he says, hesitatingly, "but--she _was_ an adopted daughter--the child of unknown parents."

Slowly John Ainsworth rises to his feet, his eyes turning appealingly from one to the other.

"My G.o.d!" he exclaims hoa.r.s.ely, "where then is my child?"

In silence the three who sympathize with this father, look at one another helplessly. And as they sit thus silent, from the outer office comes the sound of a clear, ringing, buoyant laugh.

Instantly the Chief starts forward, but the door flies open in his face, and Richard Stanhope stands upon the threshold.

"Stanhope!" exclaims the Chief; "why, d.i.c.k!"

"It's me," says Stanhope, seizing the proffered hand and giving it a hearty pressure. "Oh, and here's Mr. Follingsbee. Glad you are here, sir."

As he grasps the hand of the lawyer he notes, with a start of surprise the presence of Walter Parks.

"Mr. Parks!" he exclaims, "this is better than I hoped for."

And then his eyes rest upon John Ainsworth's disturbed countenance.

"Mr. Stanhope," the Chief says gravely, "this is Mr. Ainsworth, late of Australia. He is interested in your search almost equally with Mr.

Parks."

The detective starts, and scans the face of the Australian with strange eagerness. Evidently his impressions are satisfactory for his face lights up as he asks:

"Not--not Mr. John Ainsworth, once the friend of Arthur Pearson?"

"The same," replies Walter Parks, for John Ainsworth seems unable to speak.

"Then," and he extends his hand to Mr. Ainsworth, "this is indeed a most opportune meeting. My lack of knowledge concerning you, sir, was my one anxiety this morning."

The four office-chairs being occupied, Stanhope perches himself upon the corner of the desk, saying, as the Chief makes a movement toward the bell:

"Don't ring, sir; I'm quite at home here."

And he looks "quite at home;" as cool, careless, and inconsequent as on the day when, in that same room, he had accepted with reluctance his commission for the masquerade.

He had, on leaving Vernet, taken time to wash the stains and pencilings from his face, and to don an easy-fitting business-suit. Stanhope is himself again: a frank, cheery, confidence-inspiring presence.

"It seems to me," he says, gazing from one to the other, "that there must be a special Providence in this meeting together, at the right time, of the very men I most wish to see. Of course, your presence is not mysterious," nodding toward his Chief, "and Mr. Follingsbee--"

"Is here at my request," interposed the Chief.

"Is he?" queries Stanhope. "I thought he was here at mine."

"I believe," says the lawyer, smiling slightly, "that your invitation did come first, Mr. Stanhope."

"I had a reason for desiring Mr. Follingsbee to be present at this interview," explains Stanhope. "And as I don't want to be unnecessarily dramatic, nor to prolong painful anxiety, let me leave my explanations to the last. Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson's murderer."

"Oh!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Mr. Parks, I believe I have found Arthur Pearson's murderer!"--page 440.]

Walter Parks springs up with a hoa.r.s.e cry. John Ainsworth leans back in his chair, pale and panting. The Chief clutches at Stanhope's knee in excited eagerness, and waits breathlessly for his next words.

Only Mr. Follingsbee, who has never heard of Arthur Pearson, remains unmoved.

"Are you sure?" articulates the excited Englishman. "Where is he? Who is he?"

"He is in a good, strong cell by this time, in the city jail."

"Oh!" gasps John Ainsworth.

"And his name is Franz Krutzer, although for many years he has been known as Papa Francoise."

"Good heavens!" cries Walter Parks. "Franz Krutzer! why, Stanhope--why, Ainsworth, it was that man's wife who had the care of your little girl!"

"Precisely," confirms Stanhope.

John Ainsworth leans forward and extends two trembling hands.

"You know," he whispers, "what do you know of my child?"

And then as Stanhope hesitates, he cries piteously: "Oh, tell me, is she alive?"

"I have not a doubt of it," says Stanhope, smiling. "She was alive half an hour ago."

"And safe and well?"

"And safe and well."

"Thank G.o.d! Oh, thank G.o.d!"

A moment he bows his head upon his hands, then lifts it and exclaims eagerly:

"Half an hour, you said; then--she must be near?"