Not until several hours afterwards did Jean regain consciousness.

When slowly she opened her eyes and gazed wonderingly about the silent room, she found herself lying in a heap upon the floor, a terrible throbbing across her brow and a lump in her throat.

Gradually she recollected the horror of that half-hour before she had fainted, and slowly she raised herself and tottered to a chair.

Upon the table stood the empty bottle from which Ralph and Adolphe had drunk glass after glass of red wine, before going forth to commit the crime. There were the three empty plates, too; while on the top of the cupboard the cheap, evil-smelling lamp which Jean had lit on Ralph’s arrival, was burning low, shedding a small zone of dim, yellow light.

“Gone!” she gasped aloud. “Oh, I can’t believe it! Ralph—my own Ralph—a common thief! Impossible! impossible!” Then she sobbed, burying her pale face in both her hands in blank despair.

The horrible, bitter truth had been forced upon her, and she saw it in all its hideousness.

“He raised his hand to strike me down!” she murmured to herself. “He would have struck me, had it not been for Adolphe. Ah! yes,” she sighed. “Adolphe knows—he knows the truth—of all I have suffered. Ralph is a thief, and—and the police will one day arrest him. He will be tried and punished, and I shall be left alone—alone!”

For a long time the despairing girl sat in her lonely room, bent and utterly crushed. Her thoughts were of the man she loved, and who, in return, had now revealed his contempt, even hatred. He had told her that she was but an encumbrance. He had not minced matters, but spoken openly and frankly, like the brute he was.

She was unaware that “The American” was well known in the Montmartre as a keen, unscrupulous man, against whom were so many charges. Next to Bonnemain himself, he had been the most daring and expert of all that dangerous gang.

How cleverly he had deceived her, however, she now knew. Her senses seemed benumbed, for the blow had rendered her, for the time, insensible.

A full hour went by.

The room was silent, save that from the courtyard below rose the drunken voice of a workman who lived in the ground-floor flat—the husband of the slatternly concierge—who had just returned.

The broken clock still pointed to the hour of four, therefore she had no idea of the time, but sat staring in front of her, like one in a dream.

Once or twice her breast slowly heaved and fell beneath her neat, black gown. Then at last she rose and, crossing to the cupboard with firm resolve, took out a small, ten-centime bottle of ink and an envelope.

Seating herself at the table, she took the pen in her trembling fingers, and with tears falling upon the paper, traced uneven words in French, as follows:

Slowly she folded it, took off her wedding-ring, and placed it in the envelope, together with the letter. Afterwards she addressed it to her husband, and left it upon the table. Then slowly she rose with a hard, fixed look, and passed into the adjoining room, which was a bedroom.

She took a sad farewell of the few little treasures which she had brought from her own room in Oxford Street—knick-knacks, photographs, and the like—and, putting on her hat, passed back across the living-room, and then crept down the stairs and out—undiscovered and unheard by the ever-watchful old woman in the black, knitted shawl.

Without a glance back, she gained the broad, well-lit thoroughfare, and, turning to the left, went blindly and broken-hearted along in the direction of the Bois, out into the world, sad, despairing, and alone, heedless of where her steps led her, out into the unknown.

Meanwhile “The American” and “The Eel” were busy with their adventure.

To the left of the broad, main avenue, which, running through Neuilly-on-Seine, crosses the river to Courbevoie, lived the wealthy Baron de Rycker.

The house stood alone in a secluded spot, surrounded by its own spacious grounds, and hidden from the road by a high wall. In this was a big gate of ornamental iron, the top of which was gilded—a gate which the concierge, who lived in the lodge beside it, always kept locked.

But, through the gate, the house itself could not be seen, because plates of iron had been fixed half-way up, shutting out the view of house and well-kept grounds from the public view.

As Ralph was aware, the concierge was more than a mere lodge-keeper. He knew who were the Baron’s friends, and admitted them without question, in whatever garb they might chance to be. But any inquisitive person, or stranger, never got within that gate, or if they attempted, they met with a warm reception from the fierce dog which constantly prowled about the grounds.

The two men arrived in Neuilly soon after eleven o’clock and, entering a cafÉ near the river, remained there smoking and drinking coffee, till midnight, when they went forth, treading lightly, for at “The Eel’s” lodgings in the Rue Lapage, off the Boulevard de Clichy, they had both put on boots with india-rubber soles.

Passing the wall of the Baron’s garden, they found all quiet and in darkness.

Then “The American” went back as far as the gate and threw a stone against the ironwork, with the result that the dog, which prowled there at night, barked furiously.

That was what Ralph Ansell desired.

Taking from his pocket a stone, to which was tied by cotton a piece of poisoned liver, he threw it over the gate and listened to it drop upon the gravel.

In a moment the dog, with natural curiosity, pounced upon it, and finding it to be a toothsome delicacy, could not resist it.

For another five minutes Ralph waited without making a sound.

Then he threw another stone against the iron sheeting of the gate.

The noise was loud. But there was no answering bark.

Then he crept back to where Adolphe lurked in the shadow.

A quarter of an hour later, both men were crouching before a long window which led out upon a well-kept lawn. They had scaled the wall, and crept across the grass without a sound.

The weather favoured them, for there was a slight west wind which, while catching the foliage of the trees, caused it to rustle and so conceal any slight noise they might make.

Ralph pressed the button of his electric lamp, and a small spot of light shone upon the glass. Then, with expert hand, he quickly smeared it with treacle, and afterwards, with a glazier’s diamond, cut out a piece sufficient to allow him to insert his hand and turn the latch within.

A moment later, both men were inside the large, well-furnished salle-À-manger, treading noiselessly upon the thick Turkey carpet, though “The Eel,” in entering, unfortunately stumbled, and in grabbing the door to prevent himself falling, cut his hand badly, even through the india-rubber gloves they both wore.

The pair lost no time in clearing the fine, carved sideboard of the quantity of valuable plate it contained. Then, led by Ralph, to whom the interior of the big house was well known, “The Eel” entered the cosy, luxuriously-furnished library, which was the private den of the chief secret agent of the German Empire.

It was not a large room. Its size was revealed to Adolphe by the flashing of his companion’s lamp. Lined with books, and with a big, business-like writing-table placed in the window, it was a cosy place—a place with which many a spy of Germany was familiar and in which many a man had received a bundle of hundred-franc notes in return for information, or plans of France’s armaments or defences.

From it a door led straight into the grounds, so that a visitor was not compelled to pass through the house in order to have a confidential chat with its owner, while in a farther corner of the garden was a door in the wall by which a side road might be gained.

Neither man spoke as they made a noiseless tour of the room. “The Eel” carried a capacious sack of black material, and into it thrust what knick-knacks seemed to be of value—several miniatures, a couple of gold snuff-boxes, a small box of Limoges enamel, and the like, while “The American” was busy with his skeleton keys at the drawers of the big writing-table.

Suddenly he beckoned to Adolphe, and the latter, as he approached, saw that he had succeeded in opening one of the small drawers. Within was a secret cavity known to the thief, for he had twice watched the German spy take money from it.

There was a spring at the back of the drawer, and as “The Eel” directed the rays of light inside, his companion fingered it, with the result that of a sudden a portion of the wood fell back and from within the other drew out a large bundle of French thousand-franc notes secured by an elastic band.

With a low whistle Ansell, with gloating eyes, slipped them into his breast pocket.

Then, diving his hand in again, he drew out several handsome bracelets set with diamonds and emeralds, two strings of matched pearls, a diamond and platinum pendant, a muff-chain set with diamonds, and a child’s coral necklace—the jewellery belonging to the Baron’s dead wife and his little daughter—which he kept concealed there—a relic of a long-past domestic happiness.

With scarce a glance at the valuables, the thief thrust them into his pocket.

Eagerly they cleared the secret space behind the back of the drawer. There were three other bank-notes lying loose, about twenty golden louis, two ruby rings, and lastly a safe-key, which Ralph held up in triumph, whispering:

“What about the Baron’s secret correspondence—eh?”

“Where’s the safe?” asked his companion.

“Upstairs—in his room, I expect. It is not here.”

Then, leaving the drawer open, Ralph Ansell crossed the room and, opening his big clasp-knife, the blade of which was as sharp as a razor, he commenced to slash vigorously at the pale green silk upholstery of the couch and easy chairs. He was angry and vicious in his attacks upon the furniture, cutting and slashing everywhere in his triumph over the man who had refused to further assist him.

“The Eel” watched without uttering a remark. He had seen such explosions of anger before on the part of his companion when they were doing other “jobs.” It is, indeed, well known to criminologists and to all police officials that the average burglar is never satisfied with mere theft, however great may be his coup, but that some force impels him to spend time in committing wanton damage to the furniture.

It was so with Ralph Ansell. He hated the Baron, therefore he slashed his furniture. In many other homes he had acted in a similar way, just as, indeed, Bonnemain always acted, carrying a keen knife for the purpose.

“Shall we risk going to his room?” whispered Adolphe, who approached him.

“Of course, my friend. A few of those papers will be worth thousands of francs to us,” he replied in a low breath. “This is the job of our lives, mon vieux. I daresay there are papers there which the German Government would buy back at any price we chose to put on them.”

“All right, then,” was “The Eel’s” reply. “If there’s no great risk, then let us have a try.”

“You’ve got your revolver—eh?”

“No. I never carry one now,” was Adolphe’s response.

“Never mind, I’ve got one; and I shall shoot—if necessary,” Ralph replied. “I mean to have those papers at all costs. So don’t lose your head.”

“I never do.”

“Bien! Then to work.”

And the pair crept from the room without a sound, and along the dark, thickly-carpeted corridor.