WHEN Monsieur Lefevre touched Richard Duvall on the shoulder, in the restaurant in the Boulevard des Italiens, he was filled with a very great feeling of anxiety, although he concealed it behind a mask of pleased surprise at the unexpected meeting.

Since early the evening before he had had no word from Grace. He knew from Mr. Stapleton that she had left his house a short while after nine; but since then she had completely disappeared.

The Prefect at first thought that she had been unable to keep her identity from her husband any longer, and had joined him. He later learned from Vernet that this was not the case. Now the old gentleman began to feel seriously alarmed at her continued absence.

"How goes everything, my friend?" he asked, with an elaborate show of carelessness. "Have you found the kidnappers yet?"Duvall smiled. "Not yet. But I expect to have them, before the evening is over."

"Indeed! I congratulate you. Have you seen anything of Mademoiselle Goncourt?"

"No. Why?"

"I thought perhaps you might have met her. You two are after the same game, you know."

Duvall smiled grimly. "I don't believe she's following the same trail that I am," he said. "I expect to win that bet, Monsieur."

The Prefect seemed a trifle uneasy. "The evening is not yet over, Monsieur," he replied. "But, in any event, I hope that Monsieur Stapleton's son will be returned to him without further delay, whoever brings about the result."

"Come to his house tonight, Monsieur. I have arranged a little matter with Vernet which may surprise you. And then, too, we shall have to go and get the boy." He rose, and took up his hat. "We shall want you with us."

"By all means. I shall be there, my friend. What hour would you suggest?"

"Half past eight, at the latest."

"Good! I shall be there at that time. Good day, mon ami."

"Au revoir. Give my respects to Mademoiselle Goncourt." He left the restaurant and, going to his room at the hotel, proceeded to write a long letter to Grace. He reproached her for not having written to him. Here he had been in Paris four days, and had not heard a word from her! A letter, he felt, should have come by the very next steamer—several, in fact. He told her how greatly he missed her, how deeply he loved her, and how soon he hoped to return to her arms. And even as he wrote, Grace, half dead from fatigue, stood hidden in the closet at Passy, a mile away, watching with frightened eyes the kidnapper asleep on the pallet bed.

Duvall had arranged to be at Mr. Stapleton's house a little before eight that night, and it still lacked twenty minutes of the hour when he ascended the steps of the banker's residence and was ushered into the library.

Mr. Stapleton sat in grim silence, awaiting the coming of his visitor. He did not seem particularly glad to see Duvall. The latter's apparent failure to make any headway in the matter of recovering his missing boy had caused the banker to lose confidence in his abilities.

"Good evening, Duvall," he remarked, indifferently."Good evening, Mr. Stapleton. You are ready for your man, I see." He glanced at the package of banknotes which lay at the banker's elbow.

"Quite. You have done nothing to interfere with his coming or going, I trust."

"Nothing."

Stapleton glanced at the clock. "He will be here very soon, now. May I ask you to wait in my study, upstairs? It would never do for you to be here. The man might be afraid to enter."

"No—you are right. I must not be here. But I prefer not to wait in the study. I have another plan."

"What is it?" inquired the banker, uneasily.

"Where is FranÇois, your chauffeur?"

"At his dinner, I believe. Why?"

"Will you kindly find out for sure? I want to go to his room."

Mr. Stapleton summoned a servant, who told him that the chauffeur was just finishing his dinner. "You will be very careful, Duvall," he said, anxiously. "I don't want anything done which will alarm these fellows."

"Oh, FranÇois won't see me. I shall keep out of his sight. Perhaps I had better go up now." He nodded to the banker, and at once ascended the stairs which lead to the servants' quarters.

At the door of the chauffeur's room he paused. It was closed. He pushed it gently open, and in a moment was in the room. The place was quite dark; but by means of a pocket light Duvall soon found the closet, and a moment later was safely ensconced within. He left the door ajar, and to his satisfaction found that he could see through the north window without difficulty. Here he waited, until the chauffeur should arrive.

Mr. Stapleton, meanwhile, sat grimly in the library below, waiting for the coming of the kidnapper. Promptly at eight o'clock, his butler announced that the man had arrived.

"Show him in at once," exclaimed the banker, as he rose and began to walk up and down the room.

In a moment the man came into the library. His powerful figure, his black beard, his assured manner, rendered him an easily recognized figure.

"I have come, Monsieur, as I said I would," he remarked, calmly. "I trust you have the money in readiness."

Stapleton stepped over to the desk and picked up the package of banknotes. "Here it is," he growled. "I understand that you will, in return for this money, send me word at once as to where my son is to be found."

"Within half an hour, Monsieur, at the latest; provided, of course, I am not interfered with in my escape."

"There will be no interference, until I get back my boy. After that, I shall spend another hundred thousand dollars, if need be, to bring you to justice."

"That, Monsieur, is quite within the terms of our agreement. The moment you receive the address, you are free from any obligation to me. May I see the money?" He extended his hand.

Mr. Stapleton placed the banknotes in it. "Count them," he growled, "and assure yourself that you have received the amount you demand."

The kidnapper sat down with the utmost coolness and began to count over the notes. They were all of large denomination, and the operation consumed but a few moments. As soon as he had finished, the man placed the bundle of notes carefully in an inside pocket and rose. "The amount is correct, Monsieur," he said. "Permit me to bid you a very good evening." Without further delay, he bowed, took up his hat, and left the room.

At the door he glanced quickly at his watch, then strode off up the street at a rapid pace, toward the Arc de Triomphe.

For some eight or ten minutes he walked, at the expiration of which time he arrived at the Place de l'Étoile, and at once crossed to the pavement surrounding the great triumphal arch.

Up and down the twelve great avenues which radiate from the Place of the Star flashed innumerable automobiles, coming and going like huge jeweled fireflies.

The kidnapper paused at a point on the very outer edge of the circular pavement which surrounds the arch, and waited, expectant, his eyes fixed upon the broad sweep of the Champs ÉlysÉes.

For some moments he stood thus, rigid, motionless. Suddenly a big black racing car swept from the line of traffic and approached the curb. The man on the sidewalk raised his hand, and made a momentary gesture. The car quivered to the side of the street, pausing but the fraction of a second as the tall figure of the kidnapper stepped in. Another moment, and it had swept around the great arch and was flying down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne.

Close behind it came a second car, which, like the first, contained but a single occupant in addition to the chauffeur. With scarcely fifty feet between them, the two machines swept down the broad street toward the intersection with the Avenue Malakoff.

In a few moments, both had reached it. But here their ways parted. The first car, turning in a quick and dangerous quadrant, swept into the Avenue Malakoff and sped southward like the wind. The second car continued on toward the Porte Dauphine. As it passed the intersection with the Avenue Malakoff, the chauffeur, unobserved by his passenger, directed a cylindrical black object toward the southern sky and held it there, motionless, until his car had disappeared in the shadow of the trees to the west.

Just inside the Avenue Malakoff lay a third car, its powerful engine shaking it from end to end with its rapid pulsations. Two men sat in the tonneau. One of them was occupied in watching a distant window in the rear of a house on the Avenue Kleber with a pair of field glasses. The other kept his gaze fixed upon the road before him.

Suddenly the man with the field glasses turned, and pointed toward the car which was just passing from sight along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. "Quick!" he muttered. "After him!"

The automobile shot forward like a racehorse under the whip, and in a moment was flying down the avenue in hot pursuit.

The foremost car was making high speed; but the one which pursued it was clearly the faster of the two. Slowly the space which separated them began to decrease. The man in the first car spoke quietly to his chauffeur, and the great car jumped forward with renewed speed.

Vernet, in charge of the pursuing car, swore softly to himself as he saw his quarry pull away from him. He had confidence, however, in the speed of his own machine, and urged his driver to greater efforts.

For several miles the two swept on, the rear car gaining slowly, in spite of the other's best efforts. They had passed the fortifications and were now in the Bois de Boulogne, and with clearer roads ahead the chase seemed likely to be a long one.Suddenly, to Vernet's astonishment, the forward car began to slow up. In a moment the Prefect's men ranged alongside, and covered the solitary passenger with their revolvers.

"Surrender!" Vernet cried. "You are my prisoner."

The man in the other car looked up, and calmly began to light a cigarette. "Are you a bandit, my friend?" he inquired, calmly.

The detective was taken aback. The two cars had now come to a standstill at one side of the road. "Search him!" he said quickly to his companion.

The second man climbed into the car. Its occupant made no protest. "What do you wish with me, gentlemen?" he asked, with a sarcastic smile. "My watch—my money?"

"The searchlight, first of all," replied the detective, "with which you signaled."

The man looked at him in astonishment. "What are you talking about, Monsieur?" he inquired. "Is this then a joke?"

Vernet began to feel a trifle uneasy. This man certainly did not appear to resemble in any way the prisoner he had sought. He was a clean-shaven young man, elegantly dressed, and quite evidently a gentleman. "Do you deny," asked the detective, "that on passing the Avenue Malakoff a few moments ago you flashed a blue light toward the Avenue Kleber?"

The young man laughed. "Of course I deny it," he said. "Why the devil should I be flashing blue lights at the Avenue Kleber? And who are you, to ask me any such nonsensical questions?"

"I am an agent of the police, Monsieur. Who are you?"

"I am Anton Lemaitre, stock broker, of the firm of Lemaitre and Bossard." He handed a card to the dumbfounded Vernet. "I am trying a new automobile, which I think of purchasing. My chauffeur proposed that we try it out in the Bois, where there is more opportunity to speed than in the city."

"Why did you then run away?"

"My dear sir, I saw you following me. I wish to own a fast car—the fastest car in Paris, if possible. I directed my driver to see what he could do. I do not believe, however, that I shall now buy the car, since yours is faster. What make is it, Monsieur, if I may ask?"

Vernet smothered an oath. Clearly this man was telling the truth. He directed his companion to get in with Monsieur Lemaitre. "Drive to the Prefecture," he said, "and let the gentleman tell his story to Monsieur Lefevre." He himself ordered his chauffeur to proceed with all despatch to Mr. Stapleton's house. The affair had ended in a fiasco. He felt that he must see Duvall at once.

In fifteen minutes he was at the house. Mr. Stapleton was waiting patiently in the library for the telephone call which would announce the hiding place of his boy. With him were Mrs. Stapleton and Monsieur Lefevre.

The poor man and his wife were in a pitiable state, their eyes glued to the clock which stood on the mantel. It was marked twenty-six minutes past eight. "Only four minutes more!" gasped Mrs. Stapleton, through her tears. "My God! why don't they hurry?"

Her husband endeavored to console her. "They may be a few moments late, my dear. Don't excite yourself. I am sure they will keep their word."

Vernet went over to Monsieur Lefevre and explained the events of the evening in a few words. The Prefect smiled grimly. "So Monsieur Duvall has failed again!" he remarked, in a low voice. "Mon Dieu! If we do not soon hear from Mademoiselle Goncourt, I shall begin to feel nervous myself."

Slowly the hands of the clock crept around. As the half hour was reached, and the telephone bell remained silent, Mrs. Stapleton uttered a groan of despair, and sank upon the couch, weeping pitifully. Mr. Stapleton, watch in hand, paced up and down the room. "They have been interfered with," he stormed, "or they would have communicated with me before now!" He turned to Monsieur Lefevre. "You have done nothing, I hope, to again prevent me from recovering my son?"

"Nothing, Monsieur."

Mr. Stapleton waited another five minutes. It now wanted twenty minutes to nine. The telephone bell remained persistently silent. The banker closed his watch with a snap and thrust it into his pocket. His face was pale with rage and suffering. Drops of perspiration collected on his forehead. "The scoundrels!" he cried. "They have broken their word, and robbed me of a hundred thousand dollars in the bargain. I will give another hundred thousand to the man who will capture them, dead or alive, and find my boy!"There was a profound silence, broken only by the quick sobbing of Mrs. Stapleton. Neither Lefevre nor Vernet ventured to speak.

Suddenly there arose sounds of a commotion among the servants gathered in the hall without. In their devotion to their employer they had collected there to welcome the lost boy. There were exclamations, cries of astonishment—and dismay.

The occupants of the room turned in surprise toward the door. As they did so, Richard Duvall appeared in the doorway. He staggered, and with difficulty supported himself by clutching the side of the door. His face was covered with blood, his clothes torn and disheveled.

He swayed a moment, unsteadily in the door.

"What is it—what is wrong?" cried Stapleton, starting toward him.

"The child is at 42 Rue Nicolo, Passy," gasped the detective, then fell heavily upon the library floor.