“Monsieur,” said Carlier, in a low, confidential voice, when they were alone, “though I may be a thief, and under arrest, I am still a son of France, am I not?”

“I suppose so,” replied the commissary, rather puzzled.

“Well,” said the man before him, “if you keep observation upon the Baron de Rycker, you will find that what he has lost he well deserved to lose.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the Baron is a spy—a secret agent of Germany.”

The commissary looked at him sharply, and asked:

“How do you know that?”

“Ansell told me.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Quite. Ansell has done some jobs for him, and has been well paid for them. He has acted as a spy for our enemies.”

“A spy as well as a thief—eh?”

“Exactly, m’sieur. Ansell has been in the Baron’s pay for nearly two years.”

“But this allegation is quite unsubstantiated. The Baron de Rycker is well known and highly popular in Paris. He moves in the best society, and the Ministers frequently dine at his table.”

“I know that, m’sieur. But search that safe in the little room upstairs—the safe we opened. Go there in pretence of examining our finger-prints, and you will find in the safe quantities of compromising papers. It was that collection of secret correspondence which we were after when the alarm-bell rang. We intended to secure it and sell it back to Germany.”

“If what you say is really true, Carlier, our friends in Berlin would probably give you quite a handsome price for it,” replied the official thoughtfully.

He had watched the thief’s face, and knew that he was telling the truth.

“Will you have inquiries made?” urged the thief.

“Most certainly,” was the reply. “And if I find you have told the truth, I will endeavour to obtain some slight favour for you—a shorter sentence, perhaps.”

“I have told you the truth, m’sieur. It is surely the duty of every Frenchman, even though he be a thief like myself, to unmask a spy.”

“Most certainly,” declared the official. “And I am very glad indeed that you have told me. I shall make a report to the Prefect of Police this morning, and tell him the name of my informant. The matter will be dealt with at once by the political department of the SÛretÉ.”

“The Baron will not be told who informed against him?” asked Adolphe anxiously.

“Certainly not. But if Ralph Ansell is arrested, he will be charged with assisting foreign spies—a charge quite as serious as breaking into the Baron’s house.”

“He hated the Baron because the latter had discharged him from his secret service.”

“What were his duties?”

“Ah! that I do not quite know, except that he performed delicate missions, and sometimes went abroad, to Holland, England, Norway, and other places.”

“Ansell evidently knew the arrangements of the house—eh?”

“He had been to see the Baron in secret many times.”

“And been well paid for his work, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes; heavily paid.”

“Well,” remarked the police official, “you may rest assured that the Baron will, in future, be well watched. We have no love for foreign spies in Paris, as you know.”

And then the commissary went on to question Carlier closely regarding his antecedents and his connection with the notorious Bonnemain gang, which had now been so fortunately broken up.

To all his questions Adolphe replied quite frankly, concealing nothing, well knowing that his sentence would not be made heavier if he spoke openly.

“I’ve heard stories of you for a long time, Carlier,” the commissary said at last. “And I suppose we should not have met now, except for the blackguardly action of this man who posed as your friend.”

“No. I should have escaped, I expect, just as I have done so often that my friends call me ‘The Eel,’ on account, I suppose, of my slipperiness!” And he grimaced.

The official laughed, and, with a word of thanks for the information concerning the Baron, both captor and prisoner passed back into the living-room, where the police-agents were concluding their searching investigations.

Nothing had been found of an incriminating nature, and the commissary now saw that the man arrested had spoken the truth.

While Ansell’s house was being turned upside down and Adolphe and the commissary were exchanging confidences, “The American” was having a truly hot and exciting time, as indeed he richly deserved.

Having entered the shaft, after securing the trap-door with its stout, iron bolt, he descended the rickety ladder to the cellar; thence, passing by a short tunnel, which Bonnemain had constructed with his own hands, he ascended a few rough wooden steps, and found himself in a lean-to outhouse close to a door in a high wall which led into a side street.

Creeping to the door he drew the bolt, and in a moment was free.

Turning to the left, he took to his heels, and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, intending, if possible, to get away to the country.

He was elated at his narrow escape, and how cleverly he had tricked his friend, with whom he knew the police would be busy and so allow him time to get clean away.

He was lithe and active, and a good runner. Therefore in his rubber-soled shoes he ran swiftly in the grey light of early morning, turning corner after corner, doubling and re-doubling until he came to a main thoroughfare. Then, walking slowly, he crossed it, and dived into a maze of small turnings, all of which were familiar to him.

His first idea had been to seek refuge in the house of a friend—a thief, like himself, named Toussaint—but such a course would, he reflected, be highly dangerous. The police knew Toussaint to be a friend of his, and would, perhaps, go there in search of him.

No. The best course was to get away into the country, and then to Belgium or Spain. With that snug little sum in his pocket, he could live quietly for at least a year.

At last, out of breath, he ceased running, and, moreover, he noticed some men, going to their work early, look askance at his hurry.

So he walked quietly, and lit a cigarette so as to assume an air of unconcern.

“‘The Eel’ has been trapped at last,” he laughed to himself. Then, as he put his hand into the outside pocket of his jacket, it came into contact with Jean’s letter of farewell.

He drew it out, glanced at it, and put it into his inner pocket with an imprecation followed by a triumphant laugh.

Then he whistled in a low tone to himself a popular and catchy refrain.

He was walking along briskly, smiling within himself at his alert cleverness at escaping, when, on suddenly turning the corner of a narrow street close to the Seine, he found himself face to face with two agents of police on cycles.

They were about a hundred yards away and coming in his direction. They instantly recognised him. They were the two men sent out by the commissary.

In a moment, by the attitude of the two officers, Ralph Ansell realised his danger. But too late. They threw down their cycles and fell upon him.

For a few seconds there was a fierce struggle, but in desperation Ansell drew his revolver and fired point-blank at one of his captors, who staggered and fell back with a bullet-wound in the face.

Then in a moment the thief had wrenched himself free and was away.

The sound of the shot alarmed two other police-cyclists who were in the vicinity, and, attracted by the shouts of the injured man’s companion, they were soon on the scene, and lost no time in pursuing the fugitive.

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

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

“Run, young fellow! Run on and they won’t get you! Run!”

And men and women shouted after him encouragingly.

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

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

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

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

“Keep on, brave boy!” they shouted. “Go it! Don’t give up!” And so on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But they watched in vain.

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

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