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      "That is the child of Monsieur Stapleton," the man said. "Now attend to the message."

      She sat down again, wondering.

      "Tell the boy's father this: He will leave his house tomorrow evening, in his automobile, at eight o'clock. He will bring with him, in a package, the sum of five hundred thousand francs --one hundred thousand dollars. He will have with him, in the automobile, no one but himself and his chauffeur. He will leave Paris by the Porte de Versailles, and drive along the road to Versailles at a speed of twelve miles an hour. Somewhere upon that road, among the many automobiles that will pass him, will be one, from which a blue light will flash, as it approaches him. It will also slow up. He will toss the package of bank notes into that car, and drive on. If the package contains the sum of five hundred thousand francs, he will find his child at his house, upon his return. If not, or if these instructions are not carried out to the letter--if there is any attempt made at pursuit--the child will not be there, and you can the matter--she and this fellow Valentin?"

      "It begins to look like it."

      "On what do you base your conclusions, Mr. Duvall? I cannot bring myself to believe that Mary Lanahan is lying, ready as I am to suspect this fellow Valentin."

      "First, Mr. Stapleton, on the facts themselves. The boy could not have been taken away without her knowledge. Secondly, upon some minor matters--her error of half an hour, in telling her story, for instance."

      "I am sorry, Mr. Duvall, but I cannot believe that you are right. Vd suspect Valentin, at once; but if Mary Lanahan is not telling the truth, then my experience of twenty years in judging human nature has been wasted."

      "Yet you yourself heard her admit that she was with Valentin only last Friday, the day she was taken ill."

      "Yes. That is true." Mr. Stapleton passed his hand uncertainly across his forehead. "It's too much for me."

      "Let me have a word with the nurse, alone, before I go," asked Duvall.

      "Certainly," replied the banker. "I'll send her in to you."

      When Mary Lanahan entered the room, the detective went up to her and eyed her sternly. "Was Alphonse Valentin with you at any time, in the Bois, that day?"

      "No," replied the girl, steadily.

      "Does he smoke gold-tipped cigarettes?" asked Duvall, suddenly.

      The effect of this question upon the nurse was startling. She recoiled as though the detective had struck her. "He--he does not smoke at all," she gasped, her face gray with fear.

      "Don't lie to me!"

      "He does not smoke at all," repeated the girl, almost mechanically, and stood confronting him with a defiant air.

      "Very well. That is all." The detective turned from the room and left the house.

      He did not, however, go very far. It was rapidly becoming dark. He passed down the street until he judged he was out of sight of the house, then slowly retraced his steps upon the other side, until he had reached a point nearly opposite the small iron gateway which served as the servants' entrance to Mr. Stapleton's house.

      Here, hidden behind a tree, he watched for perhaps half an hour.

      At the expiration of this period, he was rewarded by seeing a young man, evidently an under servant, emerge from the gateway. Duvall watched him as he proceeded down the street, then began to follow him.

      The young man seemed in no great hurry, and at the junction of the avenue with the Champs Elysees, Duvall accosted him, speaking in French.

      "Do you want to earn twenty francs, my friend?" he asked pleasantly.

      The boy regarded him with a quizzical smile. "Who does not, Monsieur?" he replied.

      "Let me see the note you have in your hand."

      The boy drew back suddenly, and made as though to thrust the letter into his pocket. "It is impossible, Monsieur." he began.

      Duvall took out a gold twenty-franc piece. "I intend to have the letter, my man. If you will give it to me peaceably, here are the twenty francs; if not, I shall be obliged to take it from you by force."

      The boy regarded the detective for a moment, as though contemplating flight. Duvall seized him by the collar. "Give me the note," he cried, "or I'll call a gendarme and have you placed under arrest!"

      The boy allowed the letter to drop to the pavement, seized the twenty-franc piece, and took to his heels.

      Duvall picked it up. As he had expected, it was addressed to Alphonse Valentin, Boulevard St. Michel. He had waited, on the chance that Mary Lanahan would lose no time in warning her probable confederate.

      The letter gave him the man's address. That was so much accomplished, at least. Then he tore it open, and read the contents. They proved more mystifying than anything that he had yet encountered in this mysterious affair.

      "Destroy the cigarettes!" These three words comprised the entire contents of the note.

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