The chase was a stern one. Through narrow, crooked streets "The American" ran with all speed possible, his endeavour being to reach a narrow lane protected from wheeled traffic by posts at either end, where he knew the cyclists would be compelled to dismount.

The quarter where he was, chanced to be a not altogether respectable one, therefore the wild shouts of the pursuing cyclists brought no a.s.sistance from the onlookers. Indeed, the people shouted to the fugitive, crying:

"Run, young fellow! Run on and they won't get you! Run!"

And men and women shouted after him encouragingly.

With their cries in his ears, Ansell mended his pace, but his pursuers were fast gaining upon him, and had almost overtaken him when he reached the narrow pa.s.sage between two high, dark-looking houses, close to the river.

He was now near to the river-bank, and within sight of the Pont des Peupliers, which crosses the Seine to Issy. The two police-agents threw aside their cycles and sped after him, but he was too quick for them, and when they had pa.s.sed through the pa.s.sage, they saw him dashing along by the edge of the river.

In his mad haste he stumbled and fell, and his pursuers were instantly upon him. But ere they could reach him he had jumped again to his feet and, levelling his revolver, fired point-blank at them.

The bullet pa.s.sed them harmlessly, but a group of men on their way to work, attracted by the shot and seeing the thief fleeing from justice, again shouted to him encouragingly, for the police of Paris are not in good odour with the public, as are the police of London.

"Keep on, brave boy!" they shouted. "Go it! Don't give up!" And so on.

The police-cyclists proved, however, to be good runners. They took no heed of the men's jeers. One of their colleagues had been shot; therefore they intended to arrest his a.s.sailant, alive or dead.

Indeed, the elder of the two men had drawn his heavy revolver and fired at Ansell in return.

"Coward!" cried the men, reproachfully. "You can't catch the man, so you'd shoot him down. Is that the justice we have in France?"

On went the hunted thief, and after him the two men, heedless of such criticism, for they were used to it.

At last, as they neared the bridge, Ralph Ansell felt himself nearly done. He was out of breath, excited; his face scarlet, his eyes starting out of his head.

He was running along the river-bank, and within an ace of arrest, for the two men had now out-run him.

They were within a dozen feet of his heels, one of them with a heavy, black revolver in his hand.

Should he give up, or should he make still one more dash--liberty or death?

He chose the latter, and ere his pursuers were aware of his intention, he halted on the stone edge of the embankment.

For a second he paused, and laughing back triumphantly at the agents, who had cornered him, he raised his hands above his head and dived into the swiftly flowing stream.

The men who had chased him drew up instantly, and the elder, raising his weapon, fired at the thief's head as it appeared above the water. Three times he fired, and had the satisfaction of seeing the head disappear beneath the surface close to the dark shadow of the bridge.

That he had wounded him was plainly evident. Therefore, in satisfaction, the two men stood and watched to see the fugitive rise again.

But they watched in vain.

If he did rise, it was beneath the great bridge, where the dark shadow obscured him, for it was not yet daylight.

Ralph Ansell, alias "The American," and alias half-a-dozen other names, known in criminal circles in Paris, London, and New York, sank in the swift, muddy Seine flood--and disappeared.

CHAPTER XIII.

SISTERS IN SILENCE.

Just before eleven o'clock on the following morning two sisters of the Order of Saint Agnes, one of the religious Orders which devote themselves to nursing the poor, were pa.s.sing through the Tuileries Gardens, sombre figures in their ample plain, black habits, black head-dresses, and deep, white collars, their hands beneath their gowns and gaze downturned, when one of them chanced to note the frail, pathetic little figure of a woman resting upon one of the seats.

It was Jean Ansell. Worn and weary after hours of aimless wandering, she had entered those gardens so beloved of Parisian _bonnes_ and children, and sunk down upon that seat just within the high railings skirting the busy Rue de Rivoli, and had then burst into bitter tears. Her young heart was broken.

Within sound of the hum of the never-ceasing motor traffic, up and down that fine, straight street of colonnades to the great Place de la Concorde, where the fountains were playing, the stream of everyday life of the Gay City had pa.s.sed her by. None cared--none, indeed, heed a woman's tears.

Men glanced at her and shrugged their shoulders, and the women who went by only grinned. Her troubles were no concern of theirs. Hatless, with only an old black shawl about her, and with her ap.r.o.n still on, she found herself hungry, homeless, and abandoned. Moreover, she was the wedded wife of a dangerous criminal!

Those who pa.s.sed her by little dreamed of the strange tragedy that was hers, of the incidents of the past night, of the burglary, the betrayal, the arrest, the flight, and the crowning tragedy. Indeed, she herself sat in ignorance of what had happened to the pair after they had left the house.

She was only wondering whether Ralph had found her note, and whether on reading it, he had experienced any pang of regret.

She was only an enc.u.mbrance. He had bluntly told her so.

And as she again burst into tears, for the twentieth time in the half-hour she had rested upon that seat, the two grave-faced sisters noticed her. Then, after discussing her at a distance, they ventured to approach.

She was sitting in blank despair, her elbow upon the arm of the seat, her head bent, her hand upon her brow, her whole frame convulsed by sobs.

"Sister, you are in trouble," exclaimed the elder of the two thin-faced, ascetic-looking women, addressing her as she placed a hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "Can we be of any a.s.sistance?"

Poor Jean looked up startled, dazed for the moment. She was amazed at sight of them. Ah, only those who have been adrift in Paris--the bright, laughter-loving, gay city of world-wide fame--know how hard, cruel, and unsympathetic Paris is, how the dazzling shops, the well-dressed crowds, the brilliantly-lit boulevards, the merry _cafes_, and the clattering restaurants all combine to mock the hungry and weary, the despairing, the penniless.

The girl looked up into the kind, rather sad features framed by the white linen head-dress, and tried to speak. She endeavoured to reply, but so weak was she after a whole day and night without food, that she suddenly fainted.

It was some time before she recovered consciousness, but as soon as she was sufficiently calm she gave them a brief account of what had happened. She said nothing about her husband's latest exploit, but merely told them how she had left him because of his neglect and brutality, combined with the fact that she had made the astounding discovery that he was a thief.

They sat beside her, listening attentively to her story, and expressing the deepest sympathy.

Then, after a quarter of an hour's conversation, the two sisters agreed that they could not leave her there alone, and suggested that she should accompany them to the convent, situated a few kilometres out of Paris, close to Enghien.

So, after taking her to a small restaurant near and giving her some food, they took a taxi to the Gare du Nord, and half an hour later entered the big convent of the Order, a grey, inartistic, but s.p.a.cious place, with large shady gardens at the rear, sloping down to the Lake of Enghien.

In the heavy door was a small grille, and when one of the sisters rang the clanging bell a woman's face peered forth at them with curiosity before admitting them.

Jean, in her weak, nervous state, had visions of long, stone corridors, of ghostly figures in black habits and white caps moving noiselessly, and of a peace and silence entirely strange to her. Inside, no one spoke. Save those conducting her to the rooms of the Mother Superior, all were mute.

On every wall was a crucifix, and at each corner in a small niche stood a statue of the Holy Virgin.

They pa.s.sed by the fine chapel, and Jean saw the long, stained-gla.s.s windows, the rows of empty chairs, and the Roman Catholic altar, the burning candles reflecting upon the burnished gilt, and the arum lilies in the big bra.s.s vases on either side.

At last, shown into a large bare room, the walls of which were panelled half-way up--a room bare, austere, and comfortless, with an utter lack of any attempt at decoration--Jean sank into a big leather-covered arm-chair, and one of the sisters took the old black shawl from her shoulders.

A few minutes later there entered an elderly, stately woman, with hard mouth and aquiline nose, yet in whose eyes was a pleasant, sympathetic expression--a woman very calm, very possessed, even austere. She was the Mother Superior.