Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

                            THE SECRET TOMB

                     BY MAURICE LE BLANC
                       CREATOR OF "ARSENE LUPIN"

                            FRONTISPIECE BY
                            GEORGE W. GAGE

                               NEW YORK
                         THE MACAULAY COMPANY

                       COPYRIGHT, 1923,
                   BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY

                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

[Illustration: "Leave me alone!... I forbid you to touch me!"]

CONTENTS

      I THE CHÂTEAU DE ROBOREY

     II DOROTHY'S CIRCUS

    III EXTRA LUCID

     IV THE CROSS-EXAMINATION

      V "WE WILL HELP YOU"

     VI ON THE ROAD

    VII THE HOUR DRAWS NEAR

   VIII ON THE IRON WIRE

     IX FACE TO FACE

      X TOWARDS THE GOLDEN FLEECE

     XI THE WILL OF THE MARQUIS DE BEAUGREVAL

    XII THE ELIXIR OF RESURRECTION

   XIII LAZARUS

    XIV THE FOURTH MEDAL

     XV THE KIDNAPING OF MONTFAUCON

    XVI THE LAST QUARTER OF A MINUTE

   XVII THE SECRET PERISHES

  XVIII IN ROBORE FORTUNA

THE SECRET TOMB

CHAPTER I

THE CHÂTEAU DE ROBOREY

Under a sky heavy with stars and faintly brighter for a low-hanging
sickle moon, the gipsy caravan slept on the turf by the roadside, its
shutters closed, its shafts stretched out like arms. In the shadow of
the ditch nearby a stertorous horse was snoring.

Far away, above the black crest of the hills, a bright streak of sky
announced the coming of the dawn. A church clock struck four. Here and
there a bird awoke and began to sing. The air was soft and warm.

Abruptly, from the interior of the caravan, a woman's voice cried:

"Saint-Quentin! Saint-Quentin!"

A head was thrust out of the little window which looked out over the
box under the projecting roof.

"A nice thing this! I thought as much! The rascal has decamped in the
night. The little beast! Nice discipline this is!"

Other voices joined in the grumbling. Two or three minutes passed,
then the door in the back of the caravan opened and a shadowy figure
descended the five steps of the ladder while two tousled heads appeared
at the side window.

"Dorothy! Where are you going?"

"To look for Saint-Quentin!" replied the shadowy figure.

"But he came back with you from your walk last night; and I saw him
settle down on the box."

"You can see that he isn't there any longer, Castor."

"Where is he?"

"Patience! I'm going to bring him back to you by the ears."

But two small boys in their shirts came tumbling down the steps of the
caravan and implored her:

"No, no, mummy Dorothy! Don't you go away by yourself in the
night-time. It's dangerous...."

"What are you making a fuss about, Pollux? Dangerous? It's no business
of yours!"

She smacked them and kicked them gently, and brought them quickly back
to the caravan into which they climbed. There, sitting on the stool,
she took their two heads, pressed them against her face, and kissed
them tenderly.

"No ill feeling, children. Danger? I'll find Saint-Quentin in half an
hour from now."

"A nice business!... Saint-Quentin!... A beggar who isn't sixteen!"

"While Castor and Pollux are twenty--taken together!" retorted Dorothy.

"But what does he want to go traipsing about like this at night for?
And it isn't the first time either.... Where is it he makes these
expeditions to?"

"To snare rabbits," she said. "There's nothing wrong in it, you see.
But come, there's been talk enough about it. Go to by-by again, boys.
And above all, Castor and Pollux, don't fight. D'you hear? And no
noise. The Captain's asleep; and he doesn't like to be disturbed, the
Captain doesn't."

She took herself off, jumped over the ditch, crossed a meadow, in
which her feet splashed up the water in the puddles, and gained a
path which wound through a copse of young trees which only reached
her shoulders. Twice already, the evening before, strolling with her
comrade Saint-Quentin, she had followed this half-formed path, so that
she went briskly forward without hesitating. She crossed two roads,
came to a stream, the white pebbly bottom of which gleamed under the
quiet water, stepped into it, and walked up it against the current, as
if she wished to hide her tracks, and when the first light of day began
to invest objects with clear shapes, darted forth afresh through the
woods, light, graceful, not very tall, her legs bare below a very short
skirt from which streamed behind her a flutter of many-colored ribbons.

She ran, with effortless ease, surefooted, with never a chance of
spraining an ankle, over the dead leaves, among the flowers of early
spring, lilies of the valley, violet anemones, or white narcissi.

Her black hair, not very long, was divided into two heavy masses
which flapped like two wings. Her smiling face, parted lips, dilated
nostrils, her half-closed eyes proclaimed all her delight in her
swift course through the fresh air of the morning. Her neck, long and
flexible, rose from a blouse of gray linen, closed by a kerchief of
orange silk. She looked to be fifteen or sixteen years old.

The wood came to an end. A valley lay before her, sunk between two
walls of rock and turning off abruptly. Dorothy stopped short. She had
reached her goal.

Facing her, on a pedestal of granite, cleanly cut down, and not more
than a hundred feet in diameter, rose the main building of a château,
which though it lacked grandeur of style itself, yet drew from its
position and the impressive nature of its construction an air of being
a seigniorial residence. To the right and left the valley, narrowed to
two ravines, appeared to envelop it like an old-time moat. But in front
of Dorothy the full breadth of the valley formed a slightly undulating
glacis, strewn with boulders and traversed by hedges of briar, which
ended at the foot of the almost vertical cliff of the granite pedestal.

"A quarter to five striking," murmured the young girl. "Saint-Quentin
won't be long."

She crouched down behind the enormous trunk of an uprooted tree and
watched with unwinking eyes the line of demarcation between the château
itself and its rocky base.

A narrow shelf of rock lengthened this line, running below the windows
of the ground floor; and there was a spot in this exiguous cornice at
which there came to an end a slanting fissure in the face of the cliff,
very narrow, something of the nature of a crevice in the face of a wall.

The evening before, during their walk, Saint-Quentin had said, his
finger pointing at the fissure:

"Those people believe themselves to be perfectly secure; and yet
nothing could be easier than to haul one's self up along that crack
to one of the windows. ... Look; there's one which is actually
half-open ... the window of some pantry."

Dorothy had no doubt whatever that the idea of climbing the granite
pedestal had gripped Saint-Quentin and that that very night he had
stolen away to attempt it. What had become of him after the attempt?
Had there not been some one in the room he had entered? Knowing nothing
of the place he was exploring nor of the dwellers in it, had he not let
himself be taken? Or was he merely waiting for the break of day?

She was greatly troubled. For all that she could see no sign of a path
along the ravine, some countryman might come along at the very moment
at which Saint-Quentin took the risk of making his descent, a far more
difficult business than climbing up.

Of a sudden she quivered. One might have said that in thinking of this
mischance she had brought it on them. She heard the sound of heavy
footfalls coming along the ravine and making for its main entrance.
She buried herself among the roots of the tree and they hid her. A man
came in sight. He was wearing a long blouse; his face was encircled
and hidden by a gray muffler; old, furred gloves covered his hands; he
carried a gun on his arm, a mattock over his shoulder.

She thought that he must be a sportsman, or rather a poacher, for he
walked with an uneasy air, looking carefully about him, like one who
feared to be seen, and who was carefully changing his usual bearing.
But he came to a standstill near the wall fifty or sixty yards from
the spot at which Saint-Quentin had made the ascent, and studied the
ground, turning over some flat stones and bending down over them.

At last he made up his mind and seizing one of these slabs by its
narrower end, he raised it and set it up on end in such a manner that
it was balanced after the fashion of a cromlech. So doing he uncovered
a hole which had been hollowed out in the center of the deep imprint
left by the slab. Then he took his mattock and set about enlarging it,
removing the earth very quietly, evidently taking great care to make no
noise.

A few minutes more slipped away. Then the inevitable event which
Dorothy had at once desired and feared took place. The window of the
château, through which Saint-Quentin had climbed the night before,
opened; and there appeared a long body clad in a long black coat,
its head covered with a high hat, which, even at that distance, were
plainly shiny, dirty, and patched.

Squeezed flat against the wall, Saint-Quentin lowered himself from the
window and succeeded in setting his two feet on the rocky shelf. On
the instant Dorothy, who was at the back of the man in the blouse, was
on the point of rising and making a warning signal to her comrade. The
movement was useless. The man had perceived what looked to be a black
devil clinging to the face of the cliff, and dropping his mattock, he
slipped into the hole.

For his part, Saint-Quentin, absorbed in his job of getting down, was
paying no attention to what was going on below him, and could only have
seen it by turning round, which was practically impossible. Uncoiling a
rope, which he had, without doubt, picked up in the mansion, he ran it
round a pillar of the balcony of the window in such a fashion that the
two ends hung down the face of the cliff an equal distance. With the
help of this double rope the descent presented no difficulty.

Without losing a second, Dorothy, uneasy at being no longer able to
see the man in a blouse, sprang from her hiding-place and raced to the
hole. As she got a view of it, she smothered a cry. At the bottom of
the hole, as at the bottom of a trench, the man, resting the barrel of
his gun on the rampart of earth he had thrown up, was about to take
deliberate aim at the unconscious climber.

Call out? Warn Saint-Quentin? That was to precipitate the event,
to make her presence known and find herself engaged in an unequal
struggle with an armed adversary. But do something she must. Up there
Saint-Quentin was availing himself of the fissure in the face of the
cliff, for all the world as if he were descending the shaft of a
chimney. The whole of him stuck out, a black and lean silhouette. His
high hat had been crushed down, concertina fashion, right on to his
ears.

The man set the butt of his gun against his shoulder and took aim.
Dorothy leapt forward and flung herself at the stone which stood up
behind him and with the impetus of her spring and all her weight behind
her outstretched hands, shoved it. It was badly balanced, gave at the
shock, and toppled over, closing the excavation like a trap-door of
stone, crushing the gun, and imprisoning the man in the blouse. The
young girl got just a glimpse of his head as it bent and his shoulders
as they were thrust down into the hole.

She thought that the attack was only postponed, that the enemy would
lose no time in getting out of his grave, and dashed at full speed to
the bottom of the fissure at which she arrived at the same time as
Saint-Quentin.

"Quick ... quick!" she cried. "We must bolt!"

In a flurry, he dragged down the rope by one of the ends, mumbling as
he did so:

"What's up? What d'you want? How did you know I was here?"

She gripped his arm and tugged at it.

"Bolt, idiot!... They've seen you!... They were going to take a shot at
you!... Quick! They'll be after us!"

"What's that? Be after us? Who?"

"A queer-looking beggar disguised as a peasant. He's in a hole over
yonder. He was going to shoot you like a partridge when I tumbled the
slab on to the top of him."

"But----"

"Do as I tell you, idiot! And bring the rope with you. You mustn't
leave any traces!"

She turned and bolted; he followed her. They reached the end of the
valley before the slab was raised, and without exchanging a word took
cover in the wood.

Twenty minutes later they entered the stream and did not leave it till
they could emerge on to a bank of pebbles on which their feet could
leave no print.

Saint-Quentin was off again like an arrow; but Dorothy stopped short,
suddenly shaken by a spasm of laughter which bent her double.

"What is it?" he said. "What's the matter with you?"

She could not answer. She was convulsed, her hands pressed against her
ribs, her face scarlet, her teeth, small, regular, whitely-gleaming
teeth, bared. At last she managed to stutter:

"You--you--your high--high hat!... That b-b-black coat!... Your
b-b-bare feet!... It's t-t-too funny!... Where did you sneak that
disguise from?... Goodness! What a sight you are!"

Her laughter rang out, young and fresh, on the silence in which the
leaves were fluttering. Facing her, Saint-Quentin, an awkward stripling
who had outgrown his strength, with his face too pale, his hair too
fair, his ears sticking out, but with admirable, very kindly black
eyes, gazed, smiling, at the young girl, delighted by this diversion
which seemed to be turning aside from him the outburst of wrath he was
expecting.

Of a sudden, indeed, she fell upon him, attacking him with thumps
and reproaches, but in a half-hearted fashion, with little bursts of
laughter, which robbed the chastisement of its sting.

"Wretch and rogue! You've been stealing again, have you? You're no
longer satisfied with your salary as acrobat, aren't you, my fine
fellow? You must still prig money or jewels to keep yourself in high
hats, must you? What have you got, looter? Eh? Tell me!"

By dint of striking and laughing she had soothed her righteous
indignation. She set out again and Saint-Quentin, thoroughly abashed,
stammered:

"Tell you? What's the good of telling you? You've guessed everything,
as usual.... As a matter of fact I did get in through that window,
last evening.... It was a pantry at the end of a corridor which led
to the ground-floor rooms.... Not a soul about.... The family was at
dinner.... A servant's staircase led me up into another passage, which
ran round the house, with the doors of all the rooms opening into it.
I went through them all. Nothing--that is to say, pictures and other
things too big to carry away. Then I hid myself in a closet, from which
I could see into a little sitting-room next to the prettiest bedroom.
They danced till late; then came upstairs ... fashionable people.... I
saw them through a peep-hole in the door ... the ladies décolletées,
the gentlemen in evening dress.... At last one of the ladies went into
the boudoir. She put her jewels into a jewel-box and the jewel-box into
a small safe, saying out loud as she opened it the three letters of the
combination of the lock, R.O.B.... So that, when she went to bed, all
I had to do was to make use of them.... After that.... I waited for
daylight.... I wasn't going to chance stumbling about in the dark."

"Let's see what you've got," she commanded.

He opened his hand and disclosed on the palm of it two earrings, set
with sapphires. She took them and looked at them. Her face changed; her
eyes sparkled; she murmured in quite a different voice:

"How lovely they are, sapphires!... The sky is sometimes like that--at
night ... that dark blue, full of light...."

At the moment they were crossing a piece of land on which stood a
large scarecrow, simply clad in a pair of trousers. On one of the
cross-sticks which served it for arms hung a jacket. It was the jacket
of Saint-Quentin. He had hung it there the evening before, and in order
to render himself unrecognizable, had borrowed the scarecrow's long
coat and high hat. He took off that long coat, buttoned it over the
plaster bosom of the scarecrow, and replaced the hat. Then he slipped
on his jacket and rejoined Dorothy.

She was still looking at the sapphires with an air of admiration.

He bent over them and said: "Keep them, Dorothy. You know quite well
that I'm not really a thief and that I only got them for you ... that
you might have the pleasure of looking at them and touching them....
It often goes to my heart to see you running about in that beggarly
get-up!... To think of you dancing on the tight-rope! You who ought to
live in luxury!... Ah, to think of all I'd do for you, if you'd let me!"

She raised her head, looked into his eyes, and said: "Would you really
do anything for me?"

"Anything, Dorothy."

"Well, then, be honest, Saint-Quentin."

They set out again; and the young girl continued:

"Be honest, Saint-Quentin. That's all I ask of you. You and the
other boys of the caravan, I've adopted you because, like me, you're
war-orphans, and for the last two years we have wandered together
along the high roads, happy rather than miserable, getting our fun,
and on the whole, eating when we're hungry. But we must come to an
understanding. I only like what is clean and straight and as clear as a
ray of sunlight. Are you like me? This is the third time you've stolen
to give me pleasure. Is this the last time? If it is, I pardon it. If
it isn't, it's 'good-bye.'"

She spoke very seriously, emphasizing each phrase by a toss of the head
which made the two wings of her hair flap.

Overwhelmed, Saint-Quentin said imploringly:

"Don't you want to have anything more to do with me?"

"Yes. But swear you won't do it again."

"I swear I won't."

"Then we won't say anything more about it. I feel that you mean what
you say. Take back these jewels. You can hide them in the big basket
under the caravan. Next week you will send them back by post. It's the
Château de Chagny, isn't it?"

"Yes, and I saw the lady's name on one of her band-boxes. She's the
Comtesse de Chagny."

They went on hand in hand. Twice they hid themselves to avoid meeting
peasants, and at last, after several detours, they reached the
neighborhood of the caravan.

"Listen," said Saint-Quentin, pausing to listen himself. "Yes. That's
what it is--Castor and Pollux fighting as usual, the rascals!"

He dashed towards the sound.

"Saint-Quentin!" cried the young girl. "I forbid you to hit them!"

"You hit them often enough!"

"Yes. But they like me to hit them."

At the approach of Saint-Quentin, the two boys, who were fighting a
duel with wooden swords, turned from one another to face the common
enemy, howling:

"Dorothy! Mummy Dorothy! Stop Saint-Quentin! He's a beast! Help!"

There followed a distribution of cuffs, bursts of laughter, and hugs.

"Dorothy, it's my turn to be hugged!"

"Dorothy, it's my turn to be smacked!"

But the young girl said in a scolding voice:

"And the Captain? I'm sure you've gone and woke him up!"

"The Captain? He's sleeping like a sapper," declared Pollux. "Just
listen to his snoring!"

By the side of the road the two urchins had lit a fire of wood. The
pot, suspended from an iron tripod, was boiling. The four of them ate a
steaming thick soup, bread and cheese, and drank a cup of coffee.

Dorothy did not budge from her stool. Her three companions would not
have permitted it. It was rather which of the three should rise to
serve her, all of them attentive to her wants, eager, jealous of one
another, even aggressive towards one another. The battles of Castor
and Pollux were always started by the fact that she had shown favor to
one or the other. The two urchins, stout and chubby, dressed alike in
pants, a shirt, and jacket, when one least expected it and for all that
they were as fond of one another as brothers, fell upon one another
with ferocious violence, because the young girl had spoken too kindly
to one, or delighted the other with a too affectionate look.

As for Saint-Quentin, he cordially detested them. When Dorothy fondled
them, he could have cheerfully wrung their necks. Never would she hug
him. He had to content himself with good comradeship, trusting and
affectionate, which only showed itself in a friendly hand-shake or a
pleasant smile. The stripling delighted in them as the only reward
which a poor devil like him could possibly deserve. Saint-Quentin was
one of those who love with selfless devotion.

"The arithmetic lesson now," was Dorothy's order. "And you,
Saint-Quentin, go to sleep for an hour on the box."

Castor brought his arithmetic. Pollux displayed his copy-book. The
arithmetic lesson was followed by a lecture delivered by Dorothy on the
Merovingian kings, then by a lecture on astronomy.

The two children listened with almost impassioned attention; and
Saint-Quentin on the box took good care not to go to sleep. In
teaching, Dorothy gave full play to her lively fancy in a fashion which
diverted her pupils and never allowed them to grow weary. She had an
air of learning herself whatever she chanced to be teaching. And her
discourse, delivered in a very gentle voice, revealed a considerable
knowledge and understanding and the suppleness of a practical
intelligence.

At ten o'clock the young girl gave the order to harness the horse. The
journey to the next town was a long one; and they had to arrive in
time to secure the best place in front of the town-hall.

"And the Captain? He hasn't had breakfast!" cried Castor.

"All the better," said she. "The Captain always eats too much. It will
give his stomach a rest. Besides if any one wakes him he's always in a
frightful temper. Let him sleep on."

They set out. The caravan moved along at the gentle pace of One-eyed
Magpie, a lean old mare, but still strong and willing. They called
her "One-eyed Magpie" because she had a piebald coat and had lost an
eye. Heavy, perched on two high wheels, rocking, jingling like old
iron, loaded with boxes, pots and pans, steps, barrels, and ropes, the
caravan had recently been repainted. On both sides it bore the pompous
inscription, "Dorothy's Circus, Manager's Carriage," which led one
to believe that a file of wagons and vehicles was following at some
distance with the staff, the properties, the baggage, and the wild
beasts.

Saint-Quentin, whip in hand, walked at the head of the caravan.
Dorothy, with the two small boys at her side, gathered flowers from the
banks, sang choruses of marching songs with them, or told them stories.
But at the end of half an hour, in the middle of some cross-roads, she
gave the order: "Halt!"

"What is it?" asked Saint-Quentin, seeing that she was reading the
directions on a sign-post.

"Look," she said.

"There's no need to look. It's straight on. I looked it up on our map."

"Look," she repeated. "Chagny. A mile and a half."

"Quite so. It's the village of our château of yesterday. Only to get to
it we made a short cut through the woods."

"Chagny. A mile and a half. Château de Roborey."

She appeared to be troubled and in a low voice she murmured again:

"Roborey--Roborey."

"Doubtless that's the proper name of the château," hazarded
Saint-Quentin. "What difference can it make to you?"

"None--none."

"But you look as if it made no end of a difference."

"No. It's just a coincidence."

"In what way?"

"With regard to the name of Roborey----"

"Well?"

"Well, it's a word which was impressed on my memory ... a word which
was uttered in circumstances----"

"What circumstances, Dorothy?"

She explained slowly with a thoughtful air:

"Think a minute, Saint-Quentin. I told you that my father died of his
wounds, at the beginning of the war, in a hospital near Chartres. I had
been summoned; but I did not arrive in time.... But two wounded men,
who occupied the beds next to his in the ward, told me that during his
last hours he never stopped repeating the same word again and again:
'Roborey ... Roborey.' It came like a litany, unceasingly, and as if
it weighed on his mind. Even when he was dying he still uttered the
word: 'Roborey ... Roborey.'"

"Yes," said Saint-Quentin. "I remember.... You did tell me about it."

"Ever since then I have been asking myself what it meant and by what
memory my poor father was obsessed at the time of his death. It was,
apparently, more than an obsession ... it was a terror ... a dread.
Why? I have never been able to find the explanation of it. So now you
understand, Saint-Quentin, on seeing this name ... written there,
staring me in the face ... on learning that there was a château of that
name...."

Saint-Quentin was frightened:

"You never mean to go there, do you?"

"Why not?"

"It's madness, Dorothy!"

The young girl was silent, considering. But Saint-Quentin felt sure
that she had not abandoned this unprecedented design. He was seeking
for arguments to dissuade her when Castor and Pollux came running up:

"Three caravans are coming along!"

They issued on the instant, one after the other in single file, from
a sunken lane, which opened on to the cross-roads, and took the road
to Roborey. They were an Aunt Sally, a Rifle-Range, and a Tortoise
Merry-go-round. As he passed in front of Dorothy and Saint-Quentin, one
of the men of the Rifle-Range called to them:

"Are you coming along too?"

"Where to?" said Dorothy.

"To the château. There's a village fête in the grounds. Shall I keep a
pitch for you?"

"Right. And thanks very much," replied the young girl.

The caravans went on their way.

"What's the matter, Saint-Quentin?" said Dorothy.

He was looking paler than usual.

"What's the matter with you?" she repeated. "Your lips are twitching
and you are turning green!"

He stammered:

"The p-p-police!"

From the same sunken lane two horsemen came into the cross-roads, they
rode on in front of the little party.

"You see," said Dorothy, smiling, "they're not taking any notice of us."

"No; but they're going to the château."

"Of course they are. There's a fête there; and two policemen have to be
present."

"Always supposing that they haven't discovered the disappearance of the
earrings and telephoned to the nearest police-station," he groaned.

"It isn't likely. The lady will only discover it to-night, when she
dresses for dinner."

"All the same, don't let's go there," implored the unhappy stripling.
"It's simply walking into the trap.... Besides, there's that man ...
the man in the hole."

"Oh, he dug his own grave," she said and laughed.

"Suppose he's there.... Suppose he recognizes me?"

"You were disguised. All they could do would be to arrest the scarecrow
in the tall hat!"

"And suppose they've already laid an information against me? If they
searched us they'd find the earrings."

"Drop them in some bushes in the park when we get there. I'll tell the
people of the château their fortunes; and thanks to me, the lady will
recover her earrings. Our fortunes are made."

"But if by any chance----"

"Rubbish! It would amuse me to go and see what is going on at the
château which is named Roborey. So I'm going."

"Yes; but I'm afraid ... afraid for you as well."

"Then stay away."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"We'll chance it!" he said, and cracked his whip.

CHAPTER II

DOROTHY'S CIRCUS

The château, situated at no great distance from Domfront, in the
most rugged district of the picturesque department of the Orne, only
received the name of Roborey in the course of the eighteenth century.
Earlier it took its name of the Château de Chagny from the village
which was grouped round it. The village green is in fact only a
prolongation of the court-yard of the château. When the iron gates are
open the two form an esplanade, constructed over the ancient moat, from
which one descends on the right and left by steep slopes. The inner
court-yard, circular and enclosed by two battlemented walls which run
to the buildings of the château, is adorned by a fine old fountain of
dolphins and sirens and a sun-dial set up on a rockery in the worst
taste.

Dorothy's Circus passed through the village, preceded by its band, that
is to say that Castor and Pollux did their best to wreck their lungs
in the effort to extract the largest possible number of false notes
from two trumpets. Saint-Quentin had arrayed himself in a black satin
doublet and carried over his shoulder the trident which so awes wild
beasts, and a placard which announced that the performance would take
place at three o'clock.

Dorothy, standing upright on the roof of the caravan, directed One-eyed
Magpie with four reins, wearing the majestic air of one driving a royal
coach.

Already a dozen vehicles stood on the esplanade; and round them the
showmen were busily setting up their canvas tents and swings and
wooden horses, etc. Dorothy's Circus made no such preparations. Its
directress went to the mayor's office to have her license viséd, while
Saint-Quentin unharnessed One-eyed Magpie, and the two musicians
changed their profession and set about cooking the dinner.

The Captain slept on.

Towards noon the crowd began to flock in from all the neighboring
villages. After the meal Saint-Quentin, Castor, and Pollux took a
siesta beside the caravan. Dorothy again went off. She went down into
the ravine, examined the slab over the excavation, went up out of
it again, moved among the groups of peasants and strolled about the
gardens, round the château, and everywhere else that one was allowed to
go.

"Well, how's your search getting on?" said Saint-Quentin when she
returned to the caravan.

She appeared thoughtful, and slowly she explained:

"The château, which has been empty for a long while, belongs to the
family of Chagny-Roborey, of which the last representative, Count
Octave, a man about forty, married, twelve years ago, a very rich
woman. After the war the Count and Countess restored and modernized
the château. Yesterday evening they had a house-warming to which
they invited a large party of guests who went away at the end of the
evening. To-day they're having a kind of popular house-warming for the
villagers."

"And as regards this name of Roborey, have you learned anything?"

"Nothing. I'm still quite ignorant why my father uttered it."

"So that we can get away directly after the performance," said
Saint-Quentin who was very eager to depart.

"I don't know.... We'll see.... I've found out some rather queer
things."

"Have they anything to do with your father?"

"No," she said with some hesitation. "Nothing to do with him.
Nevertheless I should like to look more closely into the matter. When
there is darkness anywhere, there's no knowing what it may hide.... I
should like...."

She remained silent for a long time. At last she went on in a serious
tone, looking straight into Saint-Quentin's face:

"Listen: you have confidence in me, haven't you? You know that I'm
quite sensible at bottom ... and very prudent. You know that I have a
certain amount of intuition ... and good eyes that see a little more
than most people see.... Well, I've got a strong feeling that I ought
to remain here."

"Because of the name of Roborey?"

"Because of that, and for other reasons, which will compel me
perhaps, according to circumstances, to undertake unexpected
enterprises ... dangerous ones. At that moment, Saint-Quentin, you must
follow me--boldly."

"Go on, Dorothy. Tell me what it is exactly."

"Nothing.... Nothing definite at present.... One word, however. The man
who was aiming at you this morning, the man in the blouse, is here."

"Never! He's here, do you say? You've seen him? With the policemen?"

She smiled.

"Not yet. But that may happen. Where have you put those earrings?"

"At the bottom of the basket, in a little card-board box with a rubber
ring round it."

"Good. As soon as the performance is over, stick them in that clump of
rhododendrons between the gates and the coach-house."

"Have they found out that they've disappeared?"

"Not yet," said Dorothy. "From the things you told me I believe that
the little safe is in the boudoir of the Countess. I heard some of the
maids talking; and nothing was said about any robbery. They'd have been
full of it." She added: "Look! there are some of the people from the
château in front of the shooting-gallery. Is it that pretty fair lady
with the grand air?"

"Yes. I recognize her."

"An extremely kind-hearted woman, according to what the maids said, and
generous, always ready to listen to the unfortunate. The people about
her are very fond of her ... much fonder of her than they are of her
husband, who, it appears, is not at all easy to get on with."

"Which of them is he? There are three men there."

"The biggest ... the man in the gray suit ... with his stomach sticking
out with importance. Look; he has taken a rifle. The two on either
side of the Countess are distant relations. The tall one with the
grizzled beard which runs up to his tortoise-shell spectacles, has
been at the château a month. The other more sallow one, in a velveteen
shooting-coat and gaiters, arrived yesterday."

"But they look as if they knew you, both of them."

"Yes. We've already spoken to one another. The bearded nobleman was
even quite attentive."

Saint-Quentin made an indignant movement. She checked him at once.

"Keep calm, Saint-Quentin. And let's go closer to them. The battle
begins."

The crowd was thronging round the back of the tent to watch the
exploits of the owner of the château, whose skill was well known.
The dozen bullets which he fired made a ring round the center of the
target; and there was a burst of applause.

"No, no!" he protested modestly. "It's bad. Not a single bull's-eye."

"Want of practice," said a voice near him.

Dorothy had slipped into the front ranks of the throng; and she had
said it in the quiet tone of a connoisseur. The spectators laughed. The
bearded gentleman presented her to the Count and Countess.

"Mademoiselle Dorothy, the directress of the circus."

"Is it as circus directress that mademoiselle judges a target or as an
expert?" said the Count jocosely.

"As an expert."

"Ah, mademoiselle also shoots?"

"Now and then."

"Jaguars?"

"No. Pipe-bowls."

"And mademoiselle does not miss her aim?"

"Never."

"Provided, of course, that she has a first-class weapon?"

"Oh, no. A good shot can use any kind of weapon that comes to hand ...
even an old-fashioned contraption like this."

She gripped the butt of an old pistol, provided herself with six
cartridges, and aimed at the card-board target cut out by the Count.

The first shot was a bull's-eye. The second cut the black circle. The
third was a bull's-eye.

The Count was amazed.

"It's marvelous.... She doesn't even take the trouble to aim. What do
you say to that, d'Estreicher?"

The bearded nobleman, as Dorothy called him, cried enthusiastically:

"Unheard of! Marvelous! You could make a fortune, Mademoiselle!"

Without answering, with the three remaining bullets she broke two
pipe-bowls and shattered an empty egg-shell that was dancing on the top
of a jet of water.

And thereupon, pushing aside her admirers, and addressing the
astonished crowd, she made the announcement:

"Ladies and gentlemen, I have the honor to inform you that the
performance of Dorothy's Circus is about to take place. After
exhibitions of marksmanship, choregraphic displays, then feats of
strength and skill and tumbling, on foot, on horseback, on the earth
and in the air. Fireworks, regattas, motor races, bull-fights, train
hold-ups, all will be on view there. It is about to begin, ladies and
gentlemen."

From that moment Dorothy was all movement, liveliness, and gayety.
Saint-Quentin had marked off a sufficiently large circle, in front of
the door of the caravan, with a rope supported by stakes. Round this
arena, in which chairs were reserved for the people of the château, the
spectators were closely packed together on benches and flights of steps
and on anything they could lay their hands on.

And Dorothy danced. First of all on a rope, stretched between two
posts. She bounced like a shuttlecock which the battledore catches and
drives yet higher; or again she lay down and balanced herself on the
rope as on a hammock, walked backwards and forwards, turned and saluted
right and left; then leapt to the earth and began to dance.

An extraordinary mixture of all the dances, in which nothing seemed
studied or purposed, in which all the movements and attitudes appeared
unconscious and to spring from a series of inspirations of the moment.
By turns she was the London dancing-girl, the Spanish dancer with
her castanets, the Russian who bounds and twirls, or, in the arms of
Saint-Quentin, a barbaric creature dancing a languorous tango.

And every time all that she needed was just a movement, the slightest
movement, which changed the hang of her shawl, or the way her hair
was arranged, to become from head to foot a Spanish, or Russian, or
English, or Argentine girl. And all the while she was an incomparable
vision of grace and charm, of harmonious and healthy youth, of pleasure
and modesty, of extreme but measured joy.

Castor and Pollux, bent over an old drum, beat with their fingers
a muffled, rhythmical accompaniment. Speechless and motionless the
spectators gazed and admired, spellbound by such a wealth of fantasy
and the multitude of images which passed before their eyes. At the
very moment when they were regarding her as a guttersnipe turning
cartwheels, she suddenly appeared to them in the guise of a lady with a
long train, flirting her fan and dancing the minuet. Was she a child or
a woman? Was she under fifteen or over twenty?

She cut short the clamor of applause which burst forth when she came to
a sudden stop, by springing on to the roof of the caravan, and crying,
with an imperious gesture:

"Silence! The Captain is waking up!"

There was, behind the box, a long narrow basket, in the shape of a
closed sentry-box. Raising it by one end, she half opened the cover and
cried:

"Now, Captain Montfaucon, you've had a good sleep, haven't you? Come
now, Captain, we're a bit behind-hand with our exercises. Make up for
it, Captain!"

She opened the top of the basket wide and disclosed in a kind of
cradle, very comfortable, a little boy of seven or eight, with golden
curls and red cheeks, who yawned prodigiously. Only half awake, he
stretched out his hands to Dorothy who clasped him to her bosom and
kissed him very tenderly.

"Baron Saint-Quentin," she called out. "Catch hold of the Captain.
Is his bread and jam ready? Captain Montfaucon will continue the
performance by going through his drill."

Captain Montfaucon was the comedian of the troupe. Dressed in an old
American uniform, his tunic dragged along the ground, and his corkscrew
trousers had their bottoms rolled up as high as his knees. This made a
costume so hampering that he could not walk ten steps without falling
full length. Captain Montfaucon provided the comedy by this unbroken
series of falls and the impressive air with which he picked himself up
again. When, furnished with a whip, his other hand useless by reason of
the slice of bread and jam it held, his cheeks smeared with jam, he put
the unbridled One-eyed Magpie through his performance, there was one
continuous roar of laughter.

"Mark time!" he ordered. "Right-about-turn!... Attention, One-eye'
Magpie!"--he could never be induced to say "One-eyed"--"And now the
goose-step. Good, One-eye' Magpie.... Perfect!"

One-eyed Magpie, promoted to the rank of circus horse, trotted round in
a circle without taking the slightest notice of the captain's orders,
who, for his part, stumbling, falling, picking himself up, recovering
his slice of bread and jam, did not bother for a moment about whether
he was obeyed or not. It was so funny, the phlegm of the little man,
and the undeviating course of the beast, that Dorothy herself was
forced to laugh with a laughter that re-doubled the gayety of the
spectators. They saw that the young girl, in spite of the fact that the
performance was undoubtedly repeated every day, always took the same
delight in it.

"Excellent, Captain," she cried to encourage him. "Splendid! And now,
captain, we'll act 'The Gipsy's Kidnaping,' a drama in a brace of
shakes. Baron Saint-Quentin, you'll be the scoundrelly kidnaper."

Uttering frightful howls, the scoundrelly kidnaper seized her and set
her on One-eyed Magpie, bound her on her, and jumped up behind her.
Under the double burden the mare staggered slowly off, while Baron
Saint-Quentin yelled:

"Gallop! Hell for leather!"

The Captain quietly put a cap on a toy gun and aimed at the scoundrelly
kidnaper.

The cap cracked; Saint-Quentin fell off; and in a transport of
gratitude the rescued gypsy covered her deliverer with kisses.

There were other scenes in which Castor and Pollux took part. All were
carried through with the same brisk liveliness. All were caricatures,
really humorous, of what diverts or charms us, and revealed a lively
imagination, powers of observation of the first order, a keen sense of
the picturesque and the ridiculous.

"Captain Montfaucon, take a bag and make a collection. Castor and
Pollux, a roll of the drum to imitate the sound of falling water. Baron
Saint-Quentin, beware of pickpockets!"

The Captain dragged through the crowd an enormous bag in which were
engulfed pennies and dirty notes; and from the top of the caravan
Dorothy delivered her farewell address:

"Very many thanks, agriculturists and towns-people! It is with regret
that we leave this generous locality. But before we depart we take
this opportunity of informing you that Mademoiselle Dorothy (she
saluted) is not only the directress of a circus and a first-class
performer. Mademoiselle Dorothy (she saluted) will also demonstrate
her extraordinary excellence in the sphere of clairvoyance and psychic
powers. The lines of the hand, the cards, coffee grounds, handwriting,
and astrology have no secrets for her. She dissipates the darkness.
She solves enigmas. With her magic ring she makes invisible springs
burst forth, and above all, she discovers in the most unfathomable
places, under the stones of old castles, and in the depths of forgotten
dungeons, fantastic treasures whose existence no one suspected. A word
to the wise is enough. I have the honor to thank you."

She descended quickly. The three boys were packing up the properties.

Saint-Quentin came to her.

"We hook it, don't we, straight away? Those policemen have kept an eye
on me the whole time."

She replied:

"Then you didn't hear the end of my speech?"

"What about it?"

"What about it? Why, the consultations are going to begin--the
superlucid clairvoyant Dorothy. Look, I here come some clients ...
the bearded nobleman and the gentleman in velveteen ... I like the
gentleman in velveteen. He is very polite; and there's no side about
his fawn-colored gaiters--the complete gentleman-farmer."

The bearded nobleman was beside himself. He loaded the young girl with
extravagant compliments, looking at her the while in an uncommonly
equivocal fashion. He introduced himself as "Maxime d'Estreicher,"
introduced his companion as "Raoul Davernoie," and finally, on behalf
of the Countess Octave, invited her to come to tea in the château.

"Alone?" she asked.

"Certainly not," protested Raoul Davernoie with a courteous bow. "Our
cousin is anxious to congratulate all your comrades. Will you come,
mademoiselle?"

Dorothy accepted. Just a moment to change her frock, and she would come
to the château.

"No, no; no toilet!" cried d'Estreicher. "Come as you are.... You look
perfectly charming in that slightly scanty costume. How pretty you are
like that!"

Dorothy flushed and said dryly:

"No compliments, please."

"It isn't a compliment, mademoiselle," he said a trifle ironically.
"It's the natural homage one pays to beauty."

He went off, taking Raoul Davernoie with him.

"Saint-Quentin," murmured Dorothy, looking after them. "Keep an eye on
that gentleman."

"Why?"

"He's the man in the blouse who nearly brought you down this morning."

Saint-Quentin staggered as if he had received the charge of shot.

"Are you sure?"

"Very nearly. He has the same way of walking, dragging his right leg a
little."

He muttered:

"He has recognized me!"

"I think so. When he saw you jumping about during the performance it
recalled to his mind the black devil performing acrobatic feats against
the face of the cliff. And it was only a step from you to me who
shoved the slab over on to his head. I read it all in his eyes and his
attitude towards me this afternoon--just in his manner of speaking to
me. There was a touch of mockery in it."

Saint-Quentin lost his temper:

"And we aren't hurrying off at once! You dare stay?"

"I dare."

"But that man?"

"He doesn't know that I penetrated his disguise.... And as long as he
doesn't know----"

"You mean that your intention is?"

"Perfectly simple--to tell them their fortunes, amuse them, and puzzle
them."

"But what's your object?"

"I want to make them talk in their turn."

"What about?"

"What I want to know."

"What do you want to know?"

"That's what I don't know. It's for them to teach me."

"And suppose they discover the robbery? Suppose they cross-examine us?"

"Saint-Quentin, take the Captain's wooden gun, mount guard in front of
the caravan, and when the policemen approach, shoot them down."

When she had made herself tidy, she took Saint-Quentin with her to the
château and on the way made him repeat all the details of his nocturnal
expedition. Behind them came Castor and Pollux, then the Captain,
who dragged after him by a string a little toy cart loaded with tiny
packages.

They entertained them in the large drawing-room of the château. The
Countess, who indeed was, as Dorothy had said, an agreeable and amiable
woman, and of a seductive prettiness, stuffed the children with
dainties, and was wholly charming to the young girl. For her part,
Dorothy seemed quite as much at her ease with her hosts as she had
been on the top of the caravan. She had merely hidden her short skirt
and bodice under a large black shawl, drawn in at the waist by a belt.
The ease of her manner, her cultivated intonation, her correct speech,
to which now and then a slang word gave a certain spiciness, her
quickness, and the intelligent expression of her brilliant eyes amazed
the Countess and charmed the three men.

"Mademoiselle," d'Estreicher exclaimed, "if you can foretell the
future, I can assure you that I too can clearly foresee it, and that
certain fortune awaits you. Ah, if you would put yourself in my hands
and let me direct your career in Paris! I am in touch with all the
worlds and I can guarantee your success."

She tossed her head:

"I don't need any one."

"Mademoiselle," said he, "confess that you do not find me congenial."

"Neither congenial nor uncongenial. I don't really know you."

"If you really knew me, you'd have confidence in me."

"I don't think so," she said.

"Why?"

She took his hand, turned it over, bent over the open palm, and as she
examined it said slowly:

"Dissipation.... Greedy for money.... Conscienceless...."

"But I protest, mademoiselle! Conscienceless? I? I who am full of
scruples."

"Your hand says the opposite, monsieur."

"Does it also say that I have no luck?"

"None at all."

"What? Shan't I ever be rich?"

"I fear not."

"Confound it.... And what about my death? Is it a long way off?"

"Not very."

"A painful death?"

"A matter of seconds."

"An accident, then?"

"Yes."

"What kind of accident?"

She pointed with her finger:

"Look here--at the base of the fore-finger."

"What is there?"

"The gallows."

There was an outburst of laughter. D'Estreicher was enchanted. Count
Octave clapped his hands.

"Bravo, mademoiselle, the gallows for this old libertine; it must be
that you have the gift of second sight. So I shall not hesitate...."

He consulted his wife with a look of inquiry and continued:

"So I shall not hesitate to tell you...."

"To tell me," finished Dorothy mischievously, "the reasons for which
you invited me to tea."

The Count protested:

"Not at all, mademoiselle. We invited you to tea solely for the
pleasure of becoming acquainted with you."

"And perhaps a little from the desire to appeal to my skill as a
sorceress."

The Countess Octave interposed:

"Ah, well, yes, mademoiselle. Your final announcement excited our
curiosity. Moreover, I will confess that we haven't much belief in
things of this kind and that it is rather out of curiosity that we
should like to ask you certain questions."

"If you have no faith in my poor skill, madame, we'll let that pass,
and all the same I'll manage to gratify your curiosity."

"By what means?"

"Merely by reflecting on your words."

"What?" said the Countess. "No magnetic passes? No hypnotic sleep?"

"No, madame--at least not for the present. Later on we'll see."

Only keeping Saint-Quentin with her, she told the children to go and
play in the garden. Then she sat down and said:

"I'm listening, madame."

"Just like that? Perfectly simply?"

"Perfectly simply."

"Well, then, mademoiselle----"

The Countess spoke in a tone the carelessness of which was not perhaps
absolutely sincere.

"Well, then, mademoiselle, you spoke of forgotten dungeons and ancient
stones and hidden treasures. Now, the Château de Roborey is several
centuries old. It has undoubtedly been the scene of adventures and
dramas; and it would amuse us to know whether any of its inhabitants
have by any chance left in some out-of-way corner one of these fabulous
treasures of which you spoke."

Dorothy kept silent for some little time. Then she said:

"I always answer with all the greater precision if full confidence is
placed in me. If there are any reservations, if the question is not put
as it ought to be...."

"What reservations? I assure you, mademoiselle----"

The young girl broke in firmly:

"You asked me the question, madame, as if you were giving way to a
sudden curiosity, which did not rest, so to speak, on any real base.
Now you know as well as I do that excavations have been made in the
château."

"That's very possible," said Count Octave. "But if they were, it must
have been dozens of years ago, in the time of my father or grandfather."

"There are recent excavations," Dorothy asserted.

"But we have only been living in the château a month!"

"It isn't a matter of a month, but of some days ... of some hours...."

The Countess declared with animation:

"I assure you, mademoiselle, that we have not made researches of any
kind."

"Then the researches must have been made by some one else."

"By whom? And under what conditions? And in what spot?"

There was another silence. Then Dorothy went on:

"You will excuse me, madame, if I have been going into matters which
do not seem to be any business of mine. It's one of my faults.
Saint-Quentin often says to me: 'Your craze for trespassing and
ferreting about everywhere will lead people to say unpleasant things
about you.' But it happened that, on arriving here, since we had to
wait for the hour of the performance, I took a walk. I wandered right
and left, looking at things, and in the end I made a certain number
of observations which, as it seemed to me, are of some importance.
Thus...."

The Count and Countess drew nearer in their eagerness to hear her. She
went on:

"Thus, while I was admiring the beautiful old fountain in the court of
honor, I was able to make sure that, all round it, holes have been dug
under the marble basin which catches the water. Was the exploration
profitable? I do not know. In any case, the earth has been put back
into its place carefully, but not so well that one cannot see that the
surface of the soil is raised."

The Count and his guests looked at one another in astonishment.

One of them objected:

"Perhaps they've been repairing the basin ... or been putting in a
waste pipe?"

"No," said the Countess in a tone of decision. "No one has touched that
fountain. And, doubtless, mademoiselle, you discovered other traces of
the same kind of work."

"Yes," said Dorothy. "Some one has been doing the same thing a little
distance away--under the rockery, the pedestal on which the sun-dial
stands. They have been boring across that rockery. An iron rod has been
broken. It's there still."

"But why?" cried the excited Countess. "Why these two spots rather than
others? What are they searching for? What do they want? Have you any
indication?"

They had not long to wait for her answer; and Dorothy delivered it
slowly, as if to make it quite clear that here was the essential point
of her inquiry:

"The motive of these investigations is engraved on the marble of the
fountain. You can see it from here? Sirens surround a column surmounted
by a capital. Isn't it so? Well, on one of the faces of the capital are
some letters--almost effaced letters."

"But we've never noticed them!" cried the Countess.

"They are there," declared the young girl. "They are worn and hard
to distinguish from the cracks in the marble. However, there is one
word--a whole word--that one can reconstruct and read easily when once
it has appeared to you."

"What word?"

"The word FORTUNA."

The three syllables came long-drawn-out in a silence of stupefaction.
The Count repeated them in a hushed voice, staring at Dorothy, who went
on:

"Yes; the word FORTUNA. And this word you find again also on
the column of the sun-dial. Even yet more obliterated, to such a degree
that one rather divines that it is there rather than actually reads
it. But it certainly is there. Each letter is in its place. You cannot
doubt it."

The Count had not waited for her to finish speaking. Already he was
out of the house; and through the open windows they saw him hurry to
the fountain. He cast but one glance at it, passed in front of the
sun-dial, and came quickly back.

"Everything that mademoiselle says is the exact truth. They have dug at
both spots ... and the word FORTUNA, which I saw at once, and
which I had never seen before, gives the reason for their digging....
They have searched ... and perhaps they have found."

"No," the young girl asserted calmly.

"Why do you say no? What do you know about it?"

She hesitated. Her eyes met the eyes of d'Estreicher. He knew now,
doubtless, that he was unmasked, and he began to understand what the
young girl was driving at. But would she dare to go to extremities
and join battle? And then what were the reasons for this unforeseen
struggle?

With an air of challenge he repeated the Countess's question:

"Yes; why do you say that they have found nothing?"

Boldly Dorothy accepted the challenge.

"Because the digging has gone on. There is in the ravine, under the
walls of the château, among the stones which have fallen from the
cliff, an ancient slab, which certainly comes from some demolished
structure. The word FORTUNA is to be deciphered on the base of
it also. Let some one move that slab and they will discover a perfectly
fresh excavation, and the tracks of feet muddled up by the hand."

EXTRA-LUCID

This last blow re-doubled the uneasiness of Count and Countess; and
they took counsel in a low voice for a moment with their cousins
d'Estreicher and Raoul Davernoie.

Saint-Quentin on hearing Dorothy reveal the events in the ravine and
the hiding-place of the man in the blouse had fallen back among the
cushions of the great easy chair on which he was sitting. She was going
mad! To set them on the trail of the man in the blouse was to set them
on their own trail, his and Dorothy's. What madness!

She, however, in the midst of all this excitement and anxiety remained
wholly calm. She appeared to be following a quite definite course with
her goal clearly in view, while the others, without her guidance,
stumbled in a panic.

"Mademoiselle," said the Countess, "your revelations have upset us
considerably. They show how extraordinarily acute you are; and I cannot
thank you enough for having given us this warning."

"You have treated me so kindly, madame," she replied, "that I am only
too delighted to have been of use to you."

"Of immense use to us," agreed the Countess. "And I beg you to make the
service complete."

"How?"

"By telling us what you know."

"I don't know any more."

"But perhaps you could learn more?"

"In what way?"

The Countess smiled:

"By means of that skill in divination of which you were telling us a
little while ago."

"And in which you do not believe, madame."

"But in which I'm quite ready to believe now."

Dorothy bowed.

"I'm quite willing.... But these are experiments which are not always
successful."

"Let's try."

"Right. We'll try. But I must ask you not to expect too much."

She took a handkerchief from Saint-Quentin's pocket and bandaged her
eyes with it.

"Astral vision, on condition of being blind," she said. "The less I see
the more I see."

And she added gravely:

"Put your questions, madame. I will answer them to the best of my
ability."

"Remaining in a state of wakefulness all the time?"

"Yes."

She rested her two elbows on the table and buried her face in her
hands. The Countess at once said:

"Who has been digging? Who has been making excavations under the
fountain and under the sun-dial?"

A minute passed slowly. They had the impression she was concentrating
and withdrawing from all contact with the world around her. At last
she said in measured tones which bore no resemblance to the accents of
a pythoness or a somnambulist.

"I see nothing on the esplanade. In that quarter the excavations must
already be several days old, and all traces are obliterated. But in the
ravine----"

"In the ravine?" said the Countess.

"The slab is standing on end and a man is digging a hole with a
mattock."

"A man? What man? Describe him."

"He is wearing a very long blouse."

"But his face?..."

"His face is encircled by a muffler which passes under a cap with
turned-down brim.... You cannot even see his eyes. When he has finished
digging he lets the slab fall back into its place and carries away the
mattock."

"Nothing else?"

"No. He has found nothing."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Absolutely sure."

"And which way does he go?"

"He goes back up the ravine.... He comes to the iron gates of the
château."

"But they're locked."

"He has the key. He enters.... It is early in the morning.... No one is
up.... He directs his steps to the orangerie.... There's a small room
there."

"Yes. The gardener keeps his implements in it."

"The man sets the mattock in a corner, takes off his blouse and hangs
it on a nail in the wall."

"But he can't be the gardener!" exclaimed the Countess. "His face? Can
you see his face?"

"No ... no.... It remains covered up."

"But his clothes?"

"His clothes?... I can't make them out.... He goes out.... He
disappears."

The young girl broke off as if her attention were fixed on some one
whose outline was blurred and lost in the shadow like a phantom.

"I do not see him any longer," she said. "I can see nothing any
longer.... Do I?... Ah yes, the steps of the château.... The door is
shut quietly.... And then ... then the staircase.... A long corridor
dimly lighted by small windows.... However I can distinguish some
prints ... galloping horses ... sportsmen in red coats.... Ah! The
man!... The man is there, on his knees, before a door.... He turns the
handle of the door.... It opens."

"It must be one of the servants," said the Countess in a hollow voice.
"And it must be a room on the first floor, since there are prints on
the passage walls. What is the room like?"

"The shutters are closed. The man has lit a pocket-lamp and is hunting
about.... There's a calendar on the chimney-piece.... It's to-day,
Wednesday.... And an Empire clock with gilded columns...."

"The clock in my boudoir," murmured the Countess.

"The hands point to a quarter of six.... The light of the lamp is
directed to the other side of the room, on to a walnut cupboard with
two doors. The man opens the two doors and reveals a safe."

They were listening to Dorothy in a troubled silence, their faces
twitching with emotion. How could any one have failed to believe the
whole of the vision the young girl was describing, seeing that she
had never been over the château, never crossed the threshold of this
boudoir, and that nevertheless she was describing things which must
have been unknown to her.

Dumfounded, the Countess exclaimed:

"The safe was unlocked!... I'm certain of it ... I shut it after
putting my jewels away ... I can still hear the sound of the door
banging!"

"Shut--yes. But the key there."

"What does that matter? I have muddled up the letters of the
combination."

"Not so. The key turns."

"Impossible!"

"The key turns. I see the three letters."

"The three letters! You see them!"

"Clearly--an R, an O, and a B, that is to say the first three letters
of the word Roborey. The safe is open. There's a jewel-case inside it.
The man's hand gropes in it ... and takes...."

"What? What? What has he taken?"

"Two earrings."

"Two sapphires, aren't they? Two sapphires?"

"Yes, madame, two sapphires."

Thoroughly upset and moving jerkily, the Countess went quickly out of
the room, followed by her husband, and Raoul Davernoie. And Dorothy
heard the Count say:

"If this is true, you'll admit, Davernoie, that this instance of
divination would be uncommonly strange."

"Uncommonly strange indeed," replied d'Estreicher who had gone as far
as the door with them.

He shut the door on them and came back to the middle of the drawing-room
with the manifest intention of speaking to the young girl.

Dorothy had removed the handkerchief from her eyes and was rubbing
them like a person who has come out of the dark. The bearded nobleman
and she looked at one another for a few moments. Then, after some
hesitation, he took a couple of steps back towards the door. But once
more he changed his mind and turning towards Dorothy, stroked his beard
at length, and at last broke into a quiet, delighted chuckle.

Dorothy, who was never behind-hand when it came to laughing, did as the
bearded nobleman had done.

"You laugh?" said he.

"I laugh because you laugh. But I am ignorant of the reason of your
gayety. May I learn it?"

"Certainly, mademoiselle. I laugh because I find all that very amusing."

"What is very amusing?"

D'Estreicher came a few steps further into the room and replied:

"What is very amusing is to mix up into one and the same person the
individual who was making an excavation under the slab of stone and
this other individual who broke into the château last night and stole
the jewels."

"That is to say?" asked the young girl.

"That is to say, to be yet more precise, the idea of throwing
beforehand the burden of robbery committed by M. Saint-Quentin----"

"Onto the back of M. d'Estreicher," said Dorothy, ending his sentence
for him.

The bearded nobleman made a wry face, but did not protest. He bowed and
said:

"That's it, exactly. We may just as well play with our cards on the
table, mayn't we? We're neither of us people who have eyes for the
purpose of not seeing. And if I saw a black silhouette slip out of a
window last night. You, for your part, have seen----"

"A gentleman who received a stone slab on his head."

"Exactly. And I repeat, it's very ingenious of you to try to make
them out to be one and the same person. Very ingenious ... and very
dangerous."

"In what way is it dangerous?"

"In the sense that every attack provokes a counter-attack."

"I haven't made any attack. But I wished to make it quite clear that I
was ready to go to any lengths."

"Even to the length of attributing the theft of this pair of earrings
to me?"

"Perhaps."

"Oh! Then I'd better lose no time proving that they're in your hands."

"Be quick about it."

Once more he stopped short on the threshold of the door and said:

"Then we're enemies?"

"We're enemies."

"Why? You're quite unacquainted with me."

"I don't need to be acquainted with you to know who you are."

"What? Who I am? I'm the Chevalier Maxime d'Estreicher."

"Possibly. But you're also the gentleman who, secretly and without his
cousins' knowledge, seeks ... that which he has no right to seek. With
what object if not to steal it?"

"And that's your business?"

"Yes."

"On what grounds?"

"It won't be long before you learn."

He made a movement--of anger or contempt? He controlled himself and
mumbled:

"All the worse for you and all the worse for Saint-Quentin. Good-bye
for the present."

Without another word he bowed and went out.

It was an odd fact, but in this kind of brutal and violent duel,
Dorothy had kept so cool that hardly had the door closed before,
following her instincts of a street Arab, she indulged in a high kick
and pirouetted half across the room. Then, satisfied with herself and
the way things were going, she opened a glass-case, took from it a
bottle of smelling-salts, and went to Saint-Quentin who was lying back
in his easy chair.

"Smell it, old chap."

He sniffed it, began to sneeze, and stuttered:

"We're lost!"

"You're a fine fellow, Saint-Quentin! Why do you think we're lost?"

"He's off to denounce us."

"Undoubtedly he's off to buck up the inquiries about us. But as for
denouncing us, for telling what he saw this morning, he daren't do it.
If he does, I tell in my turn what I saw."

"All the same, Dorothy, there was no point in telling them of the
disappearance of the jewels."

"They were bound to discover it sooner or later. The fact of having
been the first to speak of it diverts suspicion."

"Or turns it on to us, Dorothy."

"In that case I accuse the bearded nobleman."

"You need proofs."

"I shall find them."

"How you do detest him!"

"No: but I wish to destroy him. He's a dangerous man, Saint-Quentin.
I have an intuition of it; and you know that I hardly ever deceive
myself. He has all the vices. He is betraying his cousins, the Count
and Countess. He is capable of anything. I wish to rid them of him by
any means."

Saint-Quentin strove to reassure himself:

"You're amazing. You make combinations and calculations; you act; you
foresee. One feels that you direct your course in accordance with a
plan."

"In accordance with nothing at all, my lad. I go forward at a venture,
and decide as Fortune bids."

"However...."

"I have a definite aim, that's all. Four people confront me, who,
there's no doubt about it, are linked together by a common secret.
Now the word 'Roborey,' uttered by my father when he was dying, gives
me the right to try to find out whether he himself did not form part
of this group, and if, in consequence, his daughter is not qualified
to take his place. Up to now the four people hold together and keep me
at a distance. I have vainly attempted the impossible to obtain their
confidence in the first place and after it their confessions, so far
without any result. But I shall succeed."

She stamped her foot, with an abruptness in which was suddenly manifest
all the energy and decision which animated this smiling and delicate
creature, and she said again:

"I shall succeed, Saint-Quentin. I swear it. I am not at the end of my
revelations. There is another which will persuade them perhaps to be
more open with me."

"What is it, Dorothy?"

"I know what I'm doing, my lad."

She was silent. She gazed through the open window near which Castor and
Pollux were fighting. The noise of hurrying footsteps reëchoed about
the château. People were calling out to one another. A servant ran
across the court at full speed and shut the gates, leaving a small part
of the crowd and three or four caravans, of which one was Dorothy's
Circus, in the court-yard.

"The p-p-policemen! The p-p-policemen!" stammered Saint-Quintin. "There
they are! They're examining the Rifle-Range!"

"And d'Estreicher is with them," observed the young girl.

"Oh, Dorothy, what have you done?"

"It's all the same to me," she said, wholly unmoved. "These people have
a secret which perhaps belongs to me as much as to them. I wish to know
it. Excitement, sensations, all that works in my favor."

"Nevertheless...."

"Pipe, Saint-Quentin. To-day decides my future. Instead of trembling,
rejoice ... a fox-trot, old chap!"

She threw an arm round his waist, and propping him up like a tailor's
dummy with wobbly legs, she forced him to turn; climbing in at the
window, Castor and Pollux, followed by Captain Montfaucon, started to
dance round the couple, chanting the air of the Capucine, first in
the drawing-room, then across the large hall. But a fresh failure of
Saint-Quentin's legs dashed the spirits of the dancers.

Dorothy lost her temper.

"What's the matter with you now?" she cried, trying to raise him and
keep him upright.

He stuttered:

"I'm afraid ... I'm afraid."

"But why on earth are you afraid? I've never seen you in such a funk.
What are you afraid of?"

"The jewels...."

"Idiot! But you've thrown them into the clump!"

"No."

"You haven't?"

"No."

"But where are they then?"

"I don't know. I looked for them in the basket as you told me to. They
weren't there any longer. The little card-board box had disappeared."

During his explanation Dorothy grew graver and graver. The danger
suddenly grew clear to her.

"Why didn't you tell me about it? I should not have acted as I did."

"I didn't dare to. I didn't want to worry you."

"Ah, Saint-Quentin, you were wrong, my lad."

She uttered no other reproach, but added:

"What's your explanation?"

"I suppose I made a mistake and didn't put the earrings in the
basket ... but somewhere else ... in some other part of the caravan....
I've looked everywhere without finding them.... But those
policemen--they'll find them."

The young girl was overwhelmed. The earrings discovered in her
possession, the theft duly verified meant arrest and jail.

"Leave me to my fate," groaned Saint-Quentin. "I'm nothing but an
imbecile.... A criminal.... Don't try to save me.... Throw all the
blame on me, since it is the truth."

At that moment a police-inspector in uniform appeared on the threshold
of the hall, under the guidance of one of the servants.

"Not a word," murmured Dorothy. "I forbid you to utter a single word."

The inspector came forward:

"Mademoiselle Dorothy?"

"I'm Mademoiselle Dorothy, inspector. What is it you want?"

"Follow me. It will be necessary...."

He was interrupted by the entrance of the Countess who hurried in,
accompanied by her husband and Raoul Davernoie.

"No, no, inspector!" she exclaimed. "I absolutely oppose anything which
might appear to show a lack of trust in mademoiselle. There is some
misunderstanding."

Raoul Davernoie also protested. But Count Octave observed:

"Bear in mind, dear, that this is merely a formality, a general measure
which the inspector is bound to take. A robbery has been committed, it
is only right that the inquiry should include everybody----"

"But it was mademoiselle who informed of the robbery," interrupted the
Countess. "It is she who for the last hour has been warning us of all
that is being plotted against us!"

"But why not let her be questioned like everybody else? As d'Estreicher
said just now, it's possible that your earrings were not stolen from
your safe. You may have put them in your ears without thinking to-day,
and then lost them out-of-doors ... where some one has picked them up."

The inspector, an honest fellow who seemed very much annoyed by this
difference of opinion between the Count and Countess, did not know what
to do. Dorothy helped him out of the awkward situation.

"I quite agree with you, Count. My part in the business may very well
appear suspicious to you; and you have the right to ask how I know the
word that opens the safe, and if my talents as a diviner are enough
to explain my clairvoyance. There isn't any reason then for making an
exception in my favor."

She bent low before the Countess and gently kissed her hand.

"You mustn't be present at the inquiry, madame. It's not a pleasant
business. For me, it's one of the risks we strolling entertainers run;
but you would find it painful. Only, I beg you, for reasons which
you will presently understand, to come back to us after they have
questioned me."

"I promise you I will."

"I'm at your service, inspector."

She went off with her four companions and the inspector of police.
Saint-Quentin had the air of a condemned criminal being led to the
gallows. Captain Montfaucon, his hands in his pockets, the string round
his wrist, dragged along his baggage-wagon and whistled an American
tune, like a gallant fellow who knows that all these little affairs
always end well.

At the end of the court-yard, the last of the country folk were
departing through the open gates, beside which the gamekeeper was
posted. The showmen were grouped about their tents and in the orangery
where the second policeman was examining their licenses.

On reaching her caravan, Dorothy perceived d'Estreicher talking to two
servants.

"You then are the director of the inquiry, monsieur?" she said gayly.

"I am indeed, mademoiselle--in your interest," he said in the same tone.

"Then I have no doubt about the result of it," she said; and turning to
the inspector, she added: "I have no keys to give you. Dorothy's Circus
has no locks. Every thing is open to the world. Empty hands and empty
pockets."

The inspector seemed to have no great relish for the job. The two
servants did their best and d'Estreicher made no bones about advising
them.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle," he said to the young girl, taking her on one
side. "I'm of the opinion that no effort should be spared to make your
complicity quite out of the question."

"It's a serious business," she said ironically.

"In what way?"

"Well, recall our conversation. There's a criminal: if it isn't me,
it's you."

D'Estreicher must have considered the young girl a formidable
adversary, and he must have been frightened by her threats, for while
he remained quite agreeable, gallant even, jesting with her, he was
indefatigable in his investigation. At his bidding the servants lifted
down the baskets and boxes, and displayed her wretched wardrobe, in the
strongest contrast to the brilliantly colored handkerchiefs and shawls
with which the young girl loved to adorn herself.

They found nothing.

They searched the walls and platform of the caravan, the mattresses,
the harness of One-eyed Magpie, the sack of oats, and the food. Nothing.

They searched the four boys. A maid felt Dorothy's clothes. The search
was fruitless. The earrings were not to be found.

"And that?" said d'Estreicher, pointing to the huge basket loaded with
pots and pans which hung under the vehicle.

With a furtive kick on the ankle Dorothy straightened Saint-Quentin who
was tottering.

"Let's bolt!" he stuttered.

"Don't be a fool. The earrings are no longer there."

"I may have made a mistake."

"You're an idiot. One doesn't make a mistake in a case like that."

"Then where is the card-board box?"

"Have you got your eyes stuffed up?"

"You can see it, can you?"

"Of course I can see it--as plainly as the nose in the middle of your
face."

"In the caravan?"

"No."

"Where?"

"On the ground ten yards away from you, between the legs of the bearded
one."

She glanced at the wagon of Captain Montfaucon which the child had
abandoned to play with a doll, and the little packages from which,
miniature bags and trunks and parcels, lay on the ground beside
d'Estreicher's heels.

One of these packages was nothing else than the card-board box which
contained the earrings. Captain Montfaucon had that afternoon added it
to what he called his haulage material.

In confiding her unexpected discovery to Saint-Quentin, Dorothy, who
did not suspect the keenness of the subtlety and power of observation
of the man she was fighting, committed an irreparable imprudence. It
was not on the young girl that d'Estreicher was keeping watch from
behind the screen of his spectacles, but on her comrade Saint-Quentin
whose distress and feebleness he had been quick to notice. Dorothy
herself remained impassive. But would not Saint-Quentin end by giving
some indication?

That was what happened. When he recognized the little box with the red
gutta-percha ring round it, Saint-Quentin heaved a great sigh in his
sudden relief. He told himself that it would never occur to any one to
untie these child's toys which lay on the ground for any one to pick
up. Several times, without the slightest suspicion, d'Estreicher had
brushed them aside with his feet and stumbled over the wagon, winning
from the Captain this sharp reprimand:

"Now then, sir! What would _you_ say, if you had a car and I knocked it
over?"

Saint-Quentin raised his head with a cheerful air. D'Estreicher
followed the direction of his gaze and instinctively understood. The
earrings were there, under the protection of Fortune and with the
unwitting complicity of the captain. But in which of the packages? The
card-board box seemed to him to be the most likely. Without a word he
bent quickly down and seized it. He drew himself up, opened it with a
furtive movement, and perceived, among some small white pebbles and
shells, the two sapphires.

He looked at Dorothy. She was very pale.

CHAPTER IV

THE CROSS-EXAMINATION

"Let's bolt!" again said Saint-Quentin, who had sunk down on to a trunk
and would have been incapable of making a single step.

"A splendid idea!" said Dorothy in a low voice. "Harness One-eyed
Magpie; let's all five of us hide ourselves in the caravan and hell for
leather for the Belgian frontier!"

She gazed steadfastly at her enemy. She felt that she was beaten. With
one word he could hand her over to justice, throw her into prison, and
render vain all her threats. Of what value are the accusations of a
thief?

Box in hand, he balanced himself on one foot then on the other with
ironical satisfaction. He had the appearance of waiting for her to
weaken and become a suppliant. How he misjudged her! On the contrary
she maintained an attitude of defiance and challenge as if she had had
the audacity to say to him:

"If you speak, you're lost."

He shrugged his shoulders and turning to the inspector who had seen
nothing of this by-play, he said:

"We may congratulate ourselves on having got it over, and entirely to
mademoiselle's advantage. Goodness, what a disagreeable job!"

"You had no business to set about it at all," said the Countess, coming
up with the Count and Raoul Davernoie.

"Oh yes, I had, dear cousin. Your husband and I had our doubts. It was
just as well to clear them up."

"And you've found nothing?" said the Count.

"Nothing ... less than nothing--at the most an odd trifle with which
Mr. Montfaucon was playing, and which Mademoiselle Dorothy had been
kind enough to give me. You do, don't you, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes," said Dorothy simply.

He displayed the card-board box, round which he had again drawn the
rubber ring, and handing it to the Countess:

"Take care of that till to-morrow morning, will you, dear lady?"

"Why should I take care of it and not you?"

"It wouldn't be the same thing," said he. "To place it in your hands is
as it were to affix a seal to it. To-morrow, at lunch, we'll open it
together."

"Do you make a point of it?"

"Yes. It's an idea ... of sorts."

"Very good," said the Countess. "I accept the charge if mademoiselle
authorizes me to do so."

"I ask it, madame," replied Dorothy, grasping the fact that the danger
was postponed till the morrow. "The box contains nothing of importance,
only white pebbles and shells. But since it amuses monsieur, and he
wants a check on it, give him this small satisfaction."

There remained, however, a formality which the inspector considered
essential in inquiries of this kind. The examination of identification
papers, delivery of documents, compliance with the regulations, were
matters which he took very seriously indeed. On the other hand, if
Dorothy surmised the existence of a secret between the Count and
Countess and their cousins, it is certain that her hosts were not
less puzzled by the strange personality which for an hour or two had
dominated and disturbed them. Who was she? Where did she come from?
What was her real name? What was the explanation of the fact that this
distinguished and intelligent creature, with her supple cleverness
and distinguished manners, was wandering about the country with four
street-boys?

She took from a locker in the caravan a passport-case which she carried
under her arm; and when they all went into the orangery which was now
empty, she took from this case a sheet of paper black with signatures
and stamps and handed it to the inspector.

"Is this all you've got?" he said almost immediately.

"Isn't it sufficient? The secretary at the mayor's office this morning
was satisfied with it."

"They're satisfied with anything in mayors' offices," he said
scornfully. "And what about these names?... Nobody's named Castor and
Pollux?... And this one ... Baron de Saint-Quentin, acrobat!"

Dorothy smiled:

"Nevertheless it is his name and his profession."

"Baron de Saint-Quentin?"

"Certainly he was the son of a plumber who lived at Saint-Quentin and
was called Baron."

"But then he must have the paternal authorization."

"Impossible."

"Why?"

"Because his father died during the occupation."

"And his mother?"

"She's dead too. No relations. The English adopted the boy. Towards the
end of the war he was assistant-cook in a hospital at Bar-le-Duc, where
I was a nurse. I adopted him."

The inspector uttered a grunt of approval and continued his examination.

"And Castor and Pollux."

"I don't know where they come from. In 1918, during the German push
towards Châlons, they were caught in the storm and picked up on a road
by some French soldiers who gave them their nicknames. The shock was
so great that they've lost all memory of the years before those days.
Are they brothers? Were they acquaintances? Where are their families?
Nobody knows. I adopted them."

"Oh!" said the inspector, somewhat taken aback. Then he went on: "There
remains now Sire Montfaucon, captain in the American army, decorated
with the Croix de guerre."

"Present," said a voice.

Montfaucon drew himself stiffly upright in a soldierly attitude, his
heels touching, and his little finger on the seam of his enormous
trousers.

Dorothy caught him on to her knee and gave him a smacking kiss.

"A brat, about whom also nobody knows anything. When he was four he
was living with a dozen American soldiers who had made for him, by way
of cradle, a fur bag. The day of the great American attack, one of the
twelve carried him on his back; and it happened that of all those who
advanced, it was this soldier who went furthest, and that they found
his body next day near Montfaucon hill. Beside him, in the fur bag, the
child was asleep, slightly wounded. On the battle-field, the colonel
decorated him with the Croix de guerre, and gave him the name and
rank of Captain Montfaucon of the American army. Later it fell to me
to nurse him at the hospital to which he was brought in. Three months
after that the colonel wished to carry him off to America. Montfaucon
refused. He did not wish to leave me. I adopted him."

Dorothy told the child's story in a low voice full of tenderness. The
eyes of the Countess shone with tears and she murmured:

"You acted admirably--admirably, mademoiselle. Only that gave you four
orphans to provide for. With what resources?"

Dorothy laughed and said:

"We were rich."

"Rich?"

"Yes, thanks to Montfaucon. Before he went his colonel left two
thousand francs for him. We bought a caravan and an old horse.
Dorothy's Circus was formed."

"A difficult profession to which you have to serve an apprenticeship."

"We served our apprenticeship under an old English soldier, formerly a
clown, who taught us all the tricks of the trade and all the wheezes.
And then I had it all in my blood. The tight-rope, dancing, I was
broken in to them years ago. Then we set out across France. It's rather
a hard life, but it keeps one in the best of health, one is never dull,
and taken all round Dorothy's Circus is a success."

"But does it comply with the official regulations?" asked the inspector
whose respect for red tape enabled him to control the sympathy he was
feeling for her. "For after all this document is only valuable from
the point of view of references. What I should like to see is your own
certificate of identity."

"I have that certificate, inspector."

"Made out by whom?"

"By the Prefecture of Châlons, which is the chief city of the
department in which I was born."

"Show it to me."

The young girl plainly hesitated. She looked at Count Octave then at
the Countess. She had begged them to come just in order that they might
be witnesses of her examination and hear the answers she proposed to
give, and now, at the last moment, she was rather sorry that she had
done so.

"Would you prefer us to withdraw?" said the Countess.

"No, no," she replied quickly. "On the contrary I insist on your
knowing."

"And us too?" said Raoul Davernoie.

"Yes," she said smiling. "There is a fact which it is my duty to
divulge to you. Oh, nothing of great importance. But ... all the same."

She took from her case a dirty card with broken corners.

"Here it is," she said.

The inspector examined the card carefully and said in the tone of one
who is not to be humbugged:

"But that isn't your name. It's a _nom de guerre_ of course--like those
of your young comrades?"

"Not at all, inspector."

"Come, come, you're not going to get me to believe...."

"Here is my birth certificate in support of it, inspector, stamped with
the stamp of the commune of Argonne."

"What? You belong to the village of Argonne!" cried the Count de Chagny.

"I did, Monsieur le Comte. But this unknown village, which gave its
name to the whole district of the Argonne, no longer exists. The war
has suppressed it."

"Yes ... yes ... I know," said the Count. "We had a friend there--a
relation. Didn't we, d'Estreicher?"

"Doubtless it was Jean d'Argonne?" she asked.

"It was. Jean d'Argonne died at the hospital at Clermont from the
effects of a wound ... Lieutenant the Prince of Argonne. You knew him."

"I knew him."

"Where? When? Under what conditions?"

"Goodness! Under the ordinary conditions in which one knows a person
with whom one is closely connected."

"What? There were ties between you and Jean d'Argonne ... the ties of
relationship?"

"The closest ties. He was my father."

"Your father! Jean d'Argonne! What are you talking about? It's
impossible! See why ... Jean's daughter was called Yolande."

"Yolande, Isabel, Dorothy."

The Count snatched the card which the inspector was turning over and
over again, and read aloud in a tone of amazement:

"Yolande Isabel Dorothy, Princess of Argonne!"

She finished the sentence for him, laughing:

"Countess Marescot, Baroness de la Hêtraie, de Beaugreval, and other
places."

The Count seized the birth certificate with no less eagerness, and more
and more astounded, read it slowly syllable by syllable:

"Yolande Isabel Dorothy, Princess of Argonne, born at Argonne, on the
14th of October, 1900, legitimate daughter of Jean de Marescot, Prince
of Argonne, and of Jessie Varenne."

Further doubt was impossible. The civil status to which the young girl
laid claim was established by proofs, which they were the less inclined
to challenge since the unexpected fact explained exactly everything
which appeared inexplicable in the manners and even in the appearance
of Dorothy.

The Countess gave her feelings full play:

"Yolande? You are the little Yolande about whom Jean d'Argonne used to
talk to us with such fondness."

"He was very fond of me," said the young girl. "Circumstances did not
allow us to live always together as I should have liked. But I was as
fond of him as if I had seen him every day."

"Yes," said the Countess. "One could not help being fond of him. I
only saw him twice in my life, in Paris, at the beginning of the war.
But what delightful recollections of him I retain! A man teeming with
gayety and lightheartedness! Just like you, Dorothy. Besides, I find
him again in you ... the eyes ... and above all the smile."

Dorothy displayed two photographs which she took from among her papers.

"His portrait, madame. Do you recognize it?"

"I should think so! And the other, this lady?"

"My mother who died many years ago. He adored her."

"Yes, yes, I know. She was formerly on the stage, wasn't she? I
remember. We will talk it all over, if you will, and about your own
life, the misfortunes which have driven you to live like this. But
first of all, how came you here? And why?"

Dorothy told them how she had chanced to see the word Roborey, which
her father had repeated when he was dying. Then the Count interrupted
her narration.

He was a perfectly commonplace man who always did his best to invest
matters with the greatest possible solemnity, in order that he might
play the chief part in them, which his rank and fortune assigned to
him. As a matter of form he consulted his two comrades, then, without
waiting to hear their answers, he dismissed the inspector with the lack
of ceremony of a grand seignior. In the same fashion he turned out
Saint-Quentin and the three boys, carefully closed the two doors, bade
the two women sit down, and walked up and down in front of them with
his hands behind his back and an air of profound thoughtfulness.

Dorothy was quite content. She had won a victory, compelled her hosts
to speak the words she wanted. The Countess held her tightly to
her. Raoul appeared to be a friend. All was going well. There was,
indeed, standing a little apart from them, hostile and formidable, the
bearded nobleman, whose hard eyes never left her. But sure of herself,
accepting the combat, full of careless daring, she refused to bend
before the menace of the terrible danger which, however, might at any
moment crush her.

"Mademoiselle," said the Count de Chagny with an air of great
importance. "It has seemed to us, to my cousins and me, since you are
the daughter of Jean d'Argonne, whose loss we so deeply deplore--it
has seemed to us, I say, that we ought in our turn, to enlighten you
concerning events of which he was cognizant and of which he would
have informed you had he not been prevented by death ... of which he
actually desired, as we know, that you should be informed."

He paused, delighted with his preamble. On occasions like this he loved
to indulge in a pomposity of diction employing only the most select
vocabulary, striving to observe the rules of grammar, and fearless of
subjunctives. He went on:

"Mademoiselle, my father, François de Chagny, my grandfather,
Dominique de Chagny, and my great-grandfather, Gaspard de Chagny,
lived their lives in the sure conviction that great wealth would
be ... how shall I put it? ... would be offered to them, by reason of
certain unknown conditions of which each of them was confident in
advance that he would be the beneficiary. And each of them took the
greater joy in the fact and indulged in a hope all the more agreeable
because the Revolution had ruined the house of the Counts de Chagny
from the roof-tree to the basement. On what was this conviction based?
Neither François, nor Dominique, nor Gaspard de Chagny ever knew. It
came from vague legends which described exactly neither the nature of
the riches nor the epoch at which they would appear, but all of which
had this in common that they evoked the name of Roborey. And these
legends could not have gone very far back since this château, which
was formerly called the Château de Chagny, only received the name of
Chagny-Roborey in the reign of Louis XVI. Is it this designation which
brought about the excavations that were made from time to time? It is
extremely probable. At all events it is a fact that at the very moment
the war broke out I had formed the resolution of restoring this Château
de Roborey, which had become merely a shooting-box and definitely
settling down in it, for all that, and I am not ashamed to say it, my
recent marriage with Madame de Chagny had enabled me to wait for these
so-called riches without excessive impatience."

The Count smiled a subtle smile in making this discreet allusion to
the manner in which he had regilded his heraldic shield, and continued:

"It is needless to tell you, I hope, that during the war the Count de
Chagny did his duty as a good Frenchman. In 1915, as lieutenant of
light-infantry, I was in Paris on leave when a series of coincidences,
brought about by the war, brought me into touch with three persons with
whom I had not previously been acquainted, and whose ties of kin-ship
with the Chagny-Roborey I learnt by accident. The first was the father
of Raoul Davernoie, Commandant Georges Davernoie, the second Maxime
d'Estreicher, the last Jean d'Argonne. All four of us were distant
cousins, all four on leave or recovering from wounds. And so it came
about that in the course of our interviews, that we learnt, to our
great surprise, that the same legend had been handed down in each of
our four families. Like their fathers and their grandfathers Georges
Davernoie, d'Estreicher, and Jean d'Argonne were awaiting the fabulous
fortune which was promised them and which was to settle the debts
which this conviction had led them on to contract. Moreover, the same
ignorance prevailed among the four cousins. No proof, no indication----"

After a fresh pause intended to lead up to an impressive effect, the
Count continued: "But yes, one indication, however: Jean d'Argonne
remembered a gold medal the importance of which his father had formerly
impressed on him. His father died a few days later from an accident
in the hunting-field without having told him anything more. But Jean
d'Argonne declared that this medal bore on it an inscription, and
that one of these words, he did not recall it at once, was this word
Roborey, on which all our hopes are undoubtedly concentrated. He
informed us then of his intention of ransacking the twenty trunks or
so, which he had been able in August, 1914, to bring away from his
country seat before its imminent pillage, and to store in a shed at
Bar-le-Duc. But before he went, since we were all men of honor, exposed
to the risks of war, we all four took a solemn oath that all our
discoveries relative to the famous treasure, should be common property.
Henceforth and forever, the treasure, should Providence decide to grant
it to us, belonged to all the four; and Jean d'Argonne, whose leave
expired, left us."

"It was at the end of 1915, wasn't it?" asked Dorothy. "We passed a
week together, the happiest week of my life. I was never to see him
again."

"It was indeed towards the end of 1915," the Count agreed. "A month
later Jean d'Argonne, wounded in the North, was sent into hospital at
Chartres, from which he wrote to us a long letter ... never finished."

The Countess de Chagny made a sudden movement. She appeared to
disapprove of what her husband had said.

"Yes, yes, I will lay that letter before you," said the Count firmly.

"Perhaps you're right," murmured the Countess. "Nevertheless----"

"What are you afraid of, madame?" said Dorothy.

"I am afraid of our causing you pain to no purpose, Dorothy. The end of
it will reveal to you very painful things."

"But it is our duty to communicate it to her," said the Count in a
peremptory tone. And he drew from his pocket-book a letter stamped
with the Red Cross and unfolded it. Dorothy felt her heart flutter
with a sudden oppression. She recognized her father's handwriting. The
Countess squeezed her hand. She saw that Raoul Davernoie was regarding
her with an air of compassion; and with an anxious face, trying less
to understand the sentences she heard than to guess the end of this
letter, she listened to it.

    "My dear Octave,

    "I will first of all set your mind at rest about my wound. It is a
    mere nothing, no complications to be afraid of. At the most a
    little fever at night, which bothers the major; but all that will
    pass. We will say no more about it, but come straight to my journey
    to Bar-le-Duc.

    "Octave, I may tell you without any beating about the bush that it
    has not been useless, and that after a patient search I ended by
    ferreting out from among a pile of boots and that conglomeration
    of useless objects which one brings away with one when one bolts,
    the precious medal. At the end of my convalescence when I come to
    Paris I will show it to you. But in the meantime, while keeping
    secret the indications engraved on the face of the medal, I may
    tell you that on the reverse are engraved these three Latin words:
    '_In Robore Fortuna_.' Three words which may be thus translated:
    'Fortune is in the firm heart,'  but which, in view of the presence
    of this word 'Robore' and in spite of the difference in the
    spelling, doubtless point to the Château de Roborey as the place in
    which the fortune, of which our family legends tell will
    consequently be hidden.

    "Have we not here, my dear Octave, a step forward on our path
    towards the truth? We shall do better still. And perhaps we shall
    be helped in the matter, in the most unexpected fashion, by an
    extremely nice young person, with whom I have just passed several
    days which have charmed me--I mean my dear little Yolande.

    "You know, my dear friend, that I have very often regretted not
    having been the father I should like to have been. My love for
    Yolande's mother, my grief at her death, my life of wandering
    during the years which followed it, all kept me far away from the
    modest farm which you call my country seat, and which, I am sure,
    is no longer anything but a heap of ruins.

    "During that time, Yolande was living in the care of the people who
    farmed my land, bringing herself up, getting her education from the
    village priest, or the schoolmaster, and above all from Nature,
    loving the animals, cultivating her flowers, light-hearted and
    uncommonly thoughtful.

    "Several times, during my visits to Argonne, her common sense and
    intelligence astonished me. On this occasion I found her, in the
    field-hospital of Bar-le-Duc, in which she has, on her own
    initiative, established herself as an assistant-nurse, a young
    girl. Barely fifteen, you cannot imagine the ascendancy she
    exercises over everyone about her. She decides matters like a grown
    person and she makes those decisions according to her own judgment.
    She has an accurate insight into reality, not merely into
    appearances but into that which lies below appearances.

    "'You do see clearly,' I said to her. 'You have the eyes of a cat
    which moves, quite at its ease, through the darkness.'

    "My dear Octave, when the war is finished, I shall bring Yolande to
    you; and I assure you that, along with our friends, we shall
    succeed in our enterprise----"

The Count stopped. Dorothy smiled sadly, deeply touched by the
tenderness and admiration which this letter so clearly displayed. She
asked:

"That isn't all, is it?"

"The letter itself ends there," said the Count. "Dated the 16th of
January, it was not posted till the 20th. I did not receive it, for
various reasons, till three weeks later. And I learnt later that on the
15th of January Jean d'Argonne had a more violent attack of fever, of
that fever which baffled the surgeon-major and which indicated a sudden
infection of the wound of which your father died ... or at least----"

"Or at least?" asked the young girl.

"Or at least which was officially stated to be the cause of his death,"
said the Count in a lower voice.

"What's that you say? What's that you say?" cried Dorothy. "My father
did not die of his wound?"

"It is not certain," the Count suggested.

"But then what did he die of? What do you suggest? What do you
suppose?"

CHAPTER V

"WE WILL HELP YOU"

The Count was silent.

Dorothy murmured fearfully, full of the dread with which the utterance
of certain words inspired one:

"Is it possible? Can they have murdered.... Can they have murdered my
father?"

"Everything leads one to believe it."

"And how?"

"Poison."

The blow had fallen. The young girl burst into tears. The Count bent
over her and said:

"Read it. For my part, I am of the opinion that your father scribbled
these last pages between two attacks of fever. When he was dead, the
hospital authorities finding a letter and an envelope all ready for the
post, sent it all on to me without examining it. Look at the end....
It is the writing of a very sick man.... The pencil moves at random
directed by an effort of will which was every moment growing weaker."

Dorothy dried her tears. She wished to know and judge for herself, and
she read in a low voice:

    "What a dream!... But was it really a dream?... What I saw last
    night, did I see it in a nightmare? Or did I actually see it?...
    The rest of the wounded men ... my neighbors ... not one of them
    was awakened. Yet the man ... the men made a noise.... There were
    two of them. They were talking in a low voice ... in the garden ...
    under a window ... which was certainly open on account of the
    heat.... And then the window was pushed.... To do that one of the
    two must have climbed on to the shoulders of the other. What did he
    want? He tried to pass his arm through.... But the window caught
    against the table by the side of the bed.... And then he must have
    slipped off his jacket.... In spite of that his sleeve must have
    caught in the window and only his arm ... his bare arm, came
    through ... preceded by a hand which groped in my direction ... in
    the direction of the drawer.... Then I understood.... The medal was
    in the drawer.... Ah, how I wanted to cry out! But my throat was
    cramped.... Then another thing terrified me. The hand held a small
    bottle.... There was on the table a glass of water, for me to drink
    with a dose of my medicine.... The hand poured several drops from
    the bottle into the glass. Horror!... Poison beyond a doubt!... But
    I will not drink my medicine--no, no!... And I write this, this
    morning, to make sure of being able to recall it.... I write that
    the hand afterwards opened the drawer.... And while it was seizing
    the medal ... I saw ... I saw on the naked arm ... above the
    elbow ... words written----"

Dorothy had to bend lower so shaky and illegible did the writing
become; and it was with great difficulty that she was able, syllable by
syllable, to decipher it:

    "Three words written ... tattooed ... as sailors do ... three
    words  ... Good God! ... these three words! The words on the
    medal!... _In robore fortuna!_"

That was all. The unfinished sheet showed nothing more but
undecipherable characters, which Dorothy did not even try to make out.

For a long while she sat with bowed head, the tears falling from her
half-closed eyes. They perceived that the circumstances in which, in
all likelihood, her father had died, had brought back all her grief.

The Count, however, continued:

"The fever must have returned ... the delirium ... and not knowing what
he was doing, he must have drunk the poison. Or, at any rate, it is a
plausible hypothesis ... for what else could it have been that this
hand poured into the glass? But I confess that we have not arrived
at any certainty in the matter. D'Estreicher and Raoul's father, at
once apprized by me of what had happened, accompanied me to Chartres.
Unfortunately, the staff, the surgeon-major and the two nurses had been
changed, so that I was brought up short against the official document
which ascribed the death to infectious complications. Moreover, ought
we to have made further researches? My two cousins were not of that
opinion, neither was I? A crime?... How to prove it? By means of these
lines in which a sick man describe a nightmare which has ridden him?
Impossible. Isn't that your opinion, mademoiselle?"

Dorothy did not answer; and it put the Count rather out of countenance.
He seemed to defend himself--not without a touch of temper:

"But we could not, Mademoiselle! Owing to the war, we ran against
endless difficulties. It was impossible! We had to cling to the one
fact which we had actually learned and not venture beyond this actual
fact which I will state in these terms: In addition to us four, to
us three rather, since Jean d'Argonne, alas! was no more, there was
a fourth person attacking the problem which we had set ourselves to
solve; and that person, moreover, had a considerable advantage over us.
A rival, an enemy had arisen, capable of the most infamous actions to
attain his end. What enemy?

"Events did not allow us to busy ourselves with this affair, and what
is more, prevented us from finding you as we should have wished. Two
letters that I wrote to you at Bar-le-Duc remained unanswered. Months
passed. Georges Davernoie was killed at Verdun, d'Estreicher wounded in
Artois, and I myself despatched on a mission to Salonica from which I
did not return till after the Armistice. In the following year the work
here was begun. The house-warming took place yesterday, and only to-day
does chance bring you here.

"You can understand, Mademoiselle, how amazed we were when we learned,
step by step, first that excavations were being made without our
knowing anything about it, that the places in which they had been
made were explained by the word Fortuna, which bore out exactly the
inscription which your father had read twice, on the gold medal and on
the arm which stole the gold medal from him. Our confidence in your
extraordinary clearsightedness became such that Madame de Chagny and
Raoul Davernoie wished you to be informed of the complete history of
the affair; and I must admit that the Countess de Chagny displayed
remarkable intuition and judgment since the confidence we felt in you
was really placed in that Yolande d'Argonne whom her father recommended
to us. It is then but natural, mademoiselle, that we should invite
you to collaborate with us in our attempt. You take the place of Jean
d'Argonne, as Raoul Davernoie has taken the place of Georges Davernoie.
Our partnership is unbroken."

A shadow rested on the satisfaction that the Count de Chagny was
feeling in his eloquence and magnanimous proposal. Dorothy maintained
an obstinate silence. Her eyes gazed vacantly before her. She did not
stir. Was she thinking that the Count had not taken much trouble to
discover the daughter of his kinsman Jean d'Argonne and to rescue her
from the life she was leading? Was she still feeling some resentment
on account of the humiliation she had suffered in being accused of
stealing the earrings?

The Countess de Chagny questioned her gently:

"What's the matter, Dorothy? This letter has filled you with gloom.
It's the death of your father, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Dorothy after a pause in a dull voice. "It's a terrible
business."

"You also believe that they murdered him?"

"Certainly. If not, the medal would have been found. Besides, the last
sheets of the letter are explicit."

"And it's your feeling that we ought to have striven to bring the
murderer to book?"

"I don't know ... I don't know," said the young girl slowly.

"But if you think so, we can take the matter up again. You may be sure
that we will lend you our assistance."

"No," she said. "I will act alone. It will be best. I will discover the
guilty man; and he shall be punished. I promise my father he shall. I
swear it."

She uttered these words with measured gravity, raising her hand a
little.

"We will help you, Dorothy," declared the Countess. "For I hope that
you won't leave us.... Here you are at home."

Dorothy shook her head. "You are too kind, madame."

"It isn't kindness: it's affection. You won my heart at first sight,
and I beg you to be my friend."

"I am, madame--wholly your friend. But----"

"What? You refuse?" exclaimed the Count de Chagny in a tone of
vexation. "We offer the daughter of Jean d'Argonne, our cousin, a life
befitting her name and birth and you prefer to go back to that wretched
existence!"

"It is not wretched, I assure you, monsieur. My four children and I are
used to it. Their health demands it."

The Countess insisted: "But we can't allow it--really! You're going to
stay with us at least some days; and from this evening you will dine
and sleep at the château."

"I beg you to excuse me, madame. I'm rather tired.... I want to be
alone."

In truth she appeared of a sudden to be worn out with fatigue. One
would never have supposed that a smile could animate that drawn,
dejected face.

The Countess de Chagny insisted no longer.

"Ah well, postpone your decision till to-morrow. Send your four
children to dinner this evening. It will give us great pleasure to
question them.... Between now and to-morrow you can think it over, and
if you persist, I'll let you go your way. You'll agree to that, won't
you?"

Dorothy rose and went towards the door. The Count and Countess went
with her. But on the threshold she paused for a moment. In spite of her
grief, the mysterious adventure which had during the last hour or two
been revealed to her continued to exercise her mind, without, so to
speak, her being aware of it; and throwing the first ray of light into
the darkness, she asserted:

"I really believe that all the legends that have been handed down in
our families are based on a reality. There must be somewhere about here
buried, or hidden, treasure; and that treasure one of these days will
become the property of him, or of those who shall be the possessors of
the talisman--that is to say, of the gold medal which was stolen from
my father. That's why I should like to know whether any of you, besides
my father, has ever heard of a gold medal being mentioned in these
legends."

It was Raoul Davernoie who answered:

"That's a point on which I can give you some information, mademoiselle.
A fortnight ago I saw in the hands of my grandfather, with whom I live
at Hillocks Manor in Vendée, a large gold coin. He was studying it;
and he put it back in its case at once with the evident intention of
hiding it from me."

"And he didn't tell you anything about it?"

"Not a word. However, on the eve of my departure he said to me: 'When
you come back I've an important revelation to make to you. I ought to
have made it long ago.'"

"You believe that he was referring to the matter in hand?"

"I do. And for that reason on my arrival at Roborey I informed my
cousins, de Chagny and d'Estreicher, who promised to pay me a visit at
the end of July when I will inform them of what I have learned."

"That's all?"

"All, mademoiselle; and it appears to me to confirm your hypothesis. We
have here a talisman of which there are doubtless several copies."

"Yes ... yes ... there's no doubt about it," murmured the young girl.
"And the death of my father is explained by the fact that he was the
possessor of this talisman."

"But," objected Raoul Davernoie, "was it not enough to steal it from
him? Why this useless crime?"

"Because, remember, the gold medal gives certain indications. In
getting rid of my father they reduced the number of those who, in
perhaps the near future, will be called upon to share these riches. Who
knows whether other crimes have not been committed?"

"Other crimes? In that case my grandfather is in danger."

"He is," she said simply.

The Count became uneasy and, pretending to laugh, he said:

"Then we also are in danger, mademoiselle, since there are signs of
recent excavation about Roborey."

"You also, Count."

"We ought then to be on our guard."

"I advise you to."

The Count de Chagny turned pale and said in a shaky voice:

"How? What measures should we take?"

"I will tell you to-morrow," said Dorothy. "You shall know to-morrow
what you have to fear and what measures you ought to take to defend
yourselves."

"You promise that?"

"I promise it."

D'Estreicher, who had followed with close attention every phase of the
conversation, without taking part in it, stepped forward:

"We make all the more point of this meeting to-morrow, mademoiselle,
because we still have to solve together a little additional problem,
the problem of the card-board box. You haven't forgotten it?"

"I forget nothing, monsieur," she said. "To-morrow, at the hour fixed,
that little matter and other matters, the theft of the sapphire
earrings among other things, shall be made clear."

She went out of the orangery.

The night was falling. The gates had been re-opened; and the
showmen, having dismantled their shows, were departing. Dorothy found
Saint-Quentin waiting for her in great anxiety and the three children
lighting a fire. When the dinner-bell rang, she sent them to the
château and remained alone to make her meal of the thick soup and some
fruit. In the evening, while waiting for them, she strolled through the
night towards the parapet which looked down on to the ravine and rested
her elbows on it.

The moon was not visible, but the veil of light clouds, which floated
across the heavens, were imbued with its light. For a long while she
was conscious of the deep silence, and, bare-headed, she presented her
burning brow to the fresh evening airs which ruffled her hair.

"Dorothy...."

Her name had been spoken in a low voice by some one who had drawn near
her without her hearing him. But the sound of his voice, low as it was,
made her tremble. Even before recognizing the outline of d'Estreicher
she divined his presence.

Had the parapet been lower and the ravine less profound she might have
essayed flight, such dread did this man inspire in her. However, she
braced herself to keep calm and master him.

"What do you want, monsieur," she said coldly. "The Count and Countess
had the delicacy to respect my desire to keep quiet. I'm surprised to
see you here."

He did not answer, but she discerned his dark shape nearer and repeated:

"What do you want?"

"I only want to say a few words to you," he murmured.

"To-morrow--at the château will be soon enough."

"No; what I have to say can only be heard by you and me; and I can
assure you, mademoiselle, that you can listen to it without being
offended. In spite of the incomprehensible hostility that you have
displayed towards me from the moment we met, I feel, for my part,
nothing but friendliness, admiration, and the greatest respect for you.
You need fear neither my words nor my actions. I am not addressing
myself to the charming and attractive young girl, but to the woman who,
all this afternoon, has dumfounded us by her intelligence. Now, listen
to me----"

"No," she broke in. "I will not. Your proposals can only be insulting."

He went on, in a louder voice; and she could feel that gentleness and
respectfulness did not come easy to him; he went on:

"Listen to me. I order you to listen to me ... and to answer at
once. I'm no maker of phrases and I'll come straight to the point,
rather crudely if I must, at the risk of shocking you. Here it is:
Chance has in a trice thrown you into an affair which I have every
right to consider my business and no one else's. We are stuck with
supernumeraries, of whom, when the time comes, I do not mean to take
the slightest account. All these people are imbeciles who will never
get anywhere. Chagny is a conceited ass.... Davernoie a country
bumpkin ... so much dead weight that we've got to lug about with us,
you and I. Then why work for them?... Let's work for ourselves, for the
two of us. Will you? You and I partners, friends, what a job we should
make of it! My energy and strength at the service of your intelligence
and clearsightedness! Besides ... besides, consider all I know! For I,
I know the problem! What will take you weeks to discover, what, I'm
certain, you'll never discover, I have at my fingers' ends. I know
all the factors in the problem except one or two which I shall end by
adding to them. Help me. Let us search together. It means a fortune,
the discovery of fabulous wealth, boundless power.... Will you?"

He bent a little too far over the young girl; and his fingers brushed
the cloak she was wearing. Dorothy, who had listened in silence in
order to learn the inmost thoughts of her adversary, started back
indignantly at his touch.

"Be off!... Leave me alone!... I forbid you to touch me!... You a
friend?... You? You?"

The repulsion with which he inspired Dorothy set him beside himself,
and foaming with rage, he cried furiously:

"So.... So ... you refuse? You refuse, in spite of the secret I have
surprised, in spite of what I can do ... and what I'm going to do....
For the stolen earrings: it is not merely a matter of Saint-Quentin.
You were there, in the ravine, to watch over his expedition. And what
is more, as his accomplice, you protected him. And the proof exists,
terrible, irrefutable. The box is in the hands of the Countess. And you
dare? You! A thief!"

He made a grab at her. Dorothy ducked and slipped along the parapet.
But he was able to grip her wrists, and he was dragging her towards
him, when of a sudden he let go of her, struck by a ray of light which
blinded him.

Perched on the parapet Montfaucon had switched full on his face the
clear light of an electric torch.

D'Estreicher took himself off. The ray followed him, cleverly guided.

"Dirty little brat!" he growled. "I'll get you.... And you too, young
woman! If to-morrow, at two o'clock, at the château, you do not come to
heel, the box will be opened in the presence of the police. It's for
you to choose."

He disappeared in the shrubbery.

Toward three o'clock in the morning, the trap, which looked down on the
box from the interior of the caravan, was opened, as it had been opened
the morning before. A hand reached out and shook Saint-Quentin, who was
sleeping under his rugs.

"Get up. Dress yourself. No noise."

He protested.

"Dorothy, what you wish to do is absurd."

"Do as you're told."

Saint-Quentin obeyed.

Outside the caravan he found Dorothy, quite ready. By the light of the
moon he saw that she was carrying a canvas bag, slung on a band running
over her shoulder, and a coil of rope.

She led him to the spot at which the parapet touched the entrance
gates. They fastened the rope to one of the bars and slid down it. Then
Saint-Quentin climbed up to the parapet and unfastened the rope. They
went down the slope into the ravine and along the foot of the cliff to
the fissure up which Saint-Quentin had climbed the night before.

"Let us climb up," said Dorothy. "You will let down the rope and help
me to ascend."

The ascent was not very difficult. The window of the pantry was open.
They climbed in through it and Dorothy lit her bull's-eye lantern.

"Take that little ladder in the corner," she said.

But Saint-Quentin started to reason with her afresh:

"It's absurd. It's madness. We are running into the lion's maw."

"Get on!"

"But indeed, Dorothy."

He got a thump in the ribs.

"Stop it! And answer me," she snapped. "You're sure that d'Estreicher's
is the last bedroom in the left-hand passage."

"Certain. As you told me to, I questioned the servants without seeming
to do so, after dinner last night."

"And you dropped the powder I gave you into his cup of coffee?"

"Yes."

"Then he's sleeping like a log; and we can go straight to him. Not
another word!"

On their way they stopped at a door. It was the dressing-room adjoining
the boudoir of the Countess. Saint-Quentin set his ladder against it
and climbed through the transom.

Three minutes later he came back.

"Did you find the card-board box?" Dorothy asked.

"Yes. I found it on the table, took the earrings out of it, and put the
box back in its place with the rubber ring round it."

They went on down the passage.

Each bedroom had a dressing-room and a closet which served as wardrobe
attached to it. They stopped before the last transom; Saint-Quentin
climbed through it and opened the door of the dressing-room for Dorothy.

There was a door between the dressing-room and the bedroom. Dorothy
opened it an inch and let a ray from her lantern fall on the bed.

"He's asleep," she whispered.

She drew a large handkerchief from her bag, uncorked a small bottle of
chloroform and poured some drops on the handkerchief.

Across the bed, in his clothes, like a man suddenly overcome by sleep,
d'Estreicher was sleeping so deeply that the young girl switched on
the electric light. Then very gently she placed the chloroformed
handkerchief over his face.

The man sighed, writhed, and was still.

Very cautiously Dorothy and Saint-Quentin passed two slip-knots in a
rope over both of his arms and tied the two ends of it round the iron
uprights of the bed. Then quickly without bothering about him they
wrapped the bedclothes round his body and legs, and tied them round
him with the table-cloth and curtain-cords.

Then d'Estreicher did awake. He tried to defend himself--too late. He
called out. Dorothy gagged him with a napkin.

Next morning the Count and Countess de Chagny were taking their coffee
with Raoul Davernoie in the big dining-room of the château when the
porter came to inform them that at daybreak the directress of Dorothy's
Circus had asked him to open the gates and that the caravan had
departed. The directress had left a letter addressed to the Count de
Chagny. All three of them went upstairs to the Countess's boudoir. The
letter ran as follows:

    "My cousin"--offended by her brusqueness, the Count started--then
    he went on:

    "My cousin: I took an oath, and I keep it. The man who was making
    excavations round the château and last night stole the earrings, is
    the same person who five years ago stole the medal and poisoned my
    father.

    "I hand him over to you. Let justice take its course.

    "DOROTHY, PRINCESS OF ARGONNE."

The Count and Countess and their cousin gazed at one another in
amazement. What did it mean? Who was the culprit. How and where had she
handed him over?

"It's a pity that d'Estreicher isn't down," said the Count. "He is so
helpful."

The Countess took up the card-board box which d'Estreicher had
entrusted to her and opened it without more ado. The box contained
exactly what Dorothy had told them, some white pebbles and shells. Then
why did d'Estreicher seem to attach so much importance to his finding
it?

Some one knocked gently at the boudoir door. It was the major-domo, the
Count's confidential man.

"What is it, Dominique?"

"The château was broken into last night."

"Impossible!" the Count declared in a positive tone. "The doors were
all locked. Where did they break in?"

"I don't know. But I've found a ladder against the wall by Monsieur
d'Estreicher's bedroom; and the transom is broken. The criminals made
their way into the dressing-room and when they had done the job, came
out through the bedroom door."

"What job?"

"I don't know, sir. I didn't like to go further into the matter by
myself. I put everything back in its place."

The Count de Chagny drew a hundred-franc note from his pocket.

"Not a word of this, Dominique. Watch the corridor and see that no one
disturbs us."

Raoul and his wife followed him. The door between d'Estreicher's
dressing-room and bedroom was half open. The smell of chloroform filled
the room.

The Count uttered a cry.

On his bed lay d'Estreicher gagged and safely bound to it. His eyes
were rolling wildly. He was groaning.

Beside him lay the muffler which Dorothy had described as belonging to
the man who was engaged in making excavations.

On the table, well in sight, lay the sapphire earrings.

But a terrifying, overwhelming sight met the eyes of all three of them
simultaneously--the irrefutable proof of the murder of Jean d'Argonne
and the theft of the medal. His right arm, bare, was stretched out
across the bed, fastened by the wrist. And on that arm they read,
tattooed:

    _In robore fortuna._

CHAPTER VI

ON THE ROAD

Every day, at the easy walk or slack trot of One-eyed Magpie, Dorothy's
Circus moved on. In the afternoon they gave their performance; after it
they strolled about those old towns of France, the picturesque charm
of which appealed so strongly to the young girl. Domfront, Mortain,
Avranches, Fougères, Vitré, feudal cities, girdled in places by their
fortifications, or bristling with their ancient keeps.... Dorothy
visited them with all the emotion of a creature who understands the
past and evokes it with a passionate enthusiasm.

She visited them alone, even as she walked alone along the high roads,
with so manifest a desire to keep to herself that the others, while
watching her with anxious eyes and silently begging for a glance from
their little mother, did not speak a word to her.

That lasted a week, a very dull week for the children. The pale
Saint-Quentin walked at the head of One-eyed Magpie as he would have
walked at the head of a horse drawing a hearse. Castor and Pollux
fought no longer. As for the captain he buried himself in the perusal
of his lesson-books and wore himself out over addition and subtraction,
knowing that Dorothy, the school-mistress of the troupe, as a rule
deeply appreciated these fits of industry. His efforts were vain.
Dorothy was thinking of something else.

Every morning, at the first village they went through, she bought a
newspaper, looked through it and crumpled it up with a movement of
irritation, as if she had failed to find what she was looking for.
Saint-Quentin at once picked it up and in his turn ran his eye through
it. Nothing. Nothing about the crime of which she had informed him in a
few words. Nothing about the arrest of that infamous d'Estreicher whom
the two of them had trussed up on his bed.

At last on the eighth day, as the sun shines after unceasing rain,
the smile appeared. It did not spring from any outside cause. It was
that life recovered its grip on her. Dorothy's spirit was throwing
off the distant tragedy in which her father lost his life. She became
the light-hearted, cheerful, and affectionate Dorothy of old. Castor,
Pollux, and the captain were smothered with kisses. Saint-Quentin
was thumped and shaken warmly by the hand. At the performance they
gave under the ramparts of Vitré she displayed an astonishing energy
and gayety. And when the audience had departed, she hustled off her
four comrades on one of those mad rounds which were for them the most
exquisite of treats.

Saint-Quentin wept with joy:

"I thought you didn't love us any more," he said.

"Why shouldn't I love my four brats any more?"

"Because you're a princess."

"Wasn't I a princess before, idiot?"

In taking them through the narrow streets of old Vitré, amid the huddle
of wooden houses, roofed with rough tiles, by fits and starts she told
them for the first time about her early years.

She had always been happy, never having known shackles, boredom, or
discipline, things which cramp the free instincts and deform the
disposition. Not that she had been a rebel. She was quite ready to
submit to rules and obligations, but she had had to choose them
herself; they had had to be such that her child's reason, already very
clear and direct, could accept them as just and necessary.

It had been the same with the education she had given herself: she
had only learnt from others that which it had pleased her to know,
extracting from the village priest at Argonne all the Latin he knew,
and letting him keep his catechism to himself; learning many things
with the schoolmaster, many others from the books she borrowed, and
very many more from the old couple who farmed her father's land, in
whose charge her parents had left her.

"I owe most to those two," she said. "But for them I should not know
what a bird is, or a plant, or a tree--the meaning of real things."

"It wasn't them, however, who taught you to dance on a tight rope and