“Oh, no, there are other things, all the things which we did not tell the papers.”
They then described the incidents that had marked M. Lenormand’s last two days: the night visit of the two ruffians to Pierre Leduc’s villa; next day, Ribeira’s attempt to kidnap Geneviève and the chase through the Saint-Cucufa woods; old Steinweg’s arrival, his examination at the detective-office in Mrs. Kesselbach’s presence, his escape from the Palais. …
“And no one knows these details except yourselves?”
“Dieuzy knows about the Steinweg incident: he told us of it.”
“And they still trust you at the Prefecture of Police?”
“So much so that they employ us openly. M. Weber swears by us.”
“Come,” said the prince, “all is not lost. If M. Lenormand has committed an imprudence that has cost him his life, as I suppose he did, at any rate he performed some good work first; and we have only to continue it. The enemy has the start of us, but we will catch him up.”
“It won’t be an easy job, governor.”
“Why not? It is only a matter of finding old Steinweg again, for the answer to the riddle is in his hands.”
“Yes, but where has Ribeira got old Steinweg tucked away?”
“At his own place, of course.”
“Then we should have to know where Ribeira hangs out.”
“Well, of course!”
He dismissed them and went to the House of Retreat. Motorcars were awaiting outside the door and two men were walking up and down, as though mounting guard.
In the garden, near Mrs. Kesselbach’s house, he saw Geneviève sitting on a bench with Pierre Leduc and a thickset gentleman wearing a single eyeglass. The three were talking and none of them saw him. But several people came out of the house: M. Formerie, M. Weber, a magistrate’s clerk, and two inspectors. Geneviève went indoors and the gentleman with the eyeglass went up and spoke to the examining-magistrate and the deputy-chief of the detective-service and walked away with them slowly.
Sernine came beside the bench where Pierre Leduc was sitting and whispered:
“Don’t move, Pierre Leduc; it’s I.”
“You! … you! …”
It was the third time that the young man saw Sernine since the awful night at Versailles; and each time it upset him.
“Tell me … who is the fellow with the eyeglass?”
Pierre Leduc turned pale and jabbered. Sernine pinched his arm:
“Answer me, confound it! Who is he?”
“Baron Altenheim.”
“Where does he come from?”
“He was a friend of Mr. Kesselbach’s. He arrived from Austria, six days ago, and placed himself at Mrs. Kesselbach’s disposal.”
The police authorities had, meanwhile, gone out of the garden; Baron Altenheim also.
The prince rose and, turning towards the Pavillon de l’Impératrice, continued:
“Has the baron asked you many questions?”
“Yes, a great many. He is interested in my case. He wants to help me find my family. He appealed to my childhood memories.”
“And what did you say?”
“Nothing, because I know nothing. What memories have I? You put me in another’s place and I don’t even know who that other is.”
“No more do I!” chuckled the prince. “And that’s just what makes your case so quaint.”
“Oh, it’s all very well for you to laugh … you’re always laughing! … But I’m beginning to have enough of it. … I’m mixed up in a heap of nasty matters … to say nothing of the danger which I run in pretending to be somebody that I am not.”
“What do you mean … that you are not? You’re quite as much a duke as I am a prince … perhaps even more so. … Besides, if you’re not a duke, hurry up and become one, hang it all! Geneviève can’t marry anyone but a duke! Look at her: isn’t she worth selling your soul for?”
He did not even look at Leduc, not caring what he thought. They had reached the house by this time; and Geneviève appeared at the foot of the steps, comely and smiling:
“So you have returned?” she said to the prince. “Ah, that’s a good thing! I am so glad. … Do you want to see Dolores?”
After a moment, she showed him into Mrs. Kesselbach’s room. The prince was taken aback. Dolores was paler still and thinner than on the day when he saw her last. Lying on a sofa, wrapped up in white stuffs, she looked like one of those sick people who have ceased to struggle against death. As for her, she had ceased to struggle against life, against the fate that was overwhelming her with its blows.
Sernine gazed at her with deep pity and with an emotion which he did not strive to conceal. She thanked him for the sympathy which he showed her. She also spoke of Baron Altenheim, in friendly terms.
“Did you know him before?” he asked.
“Yes, by name, and through his intimacy with my husband.”
“I have met an Altenheim who lives in the Rue de Rivoli. Do you think it’s the same?”
“Oh, no, this one lives in … As a matter of fact, I don’t quite know; he gave me his address, but I can’t say that I remember it. …”
After a few minutes’ conversation, Sernine took his leave. Geneviève was waiting for him in the hall:
“I want to speak to you,” she said eagerly, “on a serious matter. … Did you see him?”
“Whom?”
“Baron Altenheim. … But that’s not his name … or, at least, he has another. … I recognized him … he does not know it.”
She dragged him out of doors and walked on in great excitement.
“Calm yourself, Geneviève. …”
“He’s the man who tried to carry me off. … But for that poor M. Lenormand, I should have been done for. … Come, you must know, for you know everything. …”
“Then his real name is …”
“Ribeira.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was no use his changing his appearance, his accent, his manner: I knew him at once, by the horror with which he inspires me. But I said nothing … until you returned.”
“You said nothing to Mrs. Kesselbach either?”
“No. She seemed so happy at meeting a friend of her husband’s. But you will speak to her about it, will you not? You will protect her. … I don’t know what he is preparing against her, against myself. … Now
