“There are others,” he exclaimed. “The man who rode this motorcycle—”
“Young Espinosa,” replied Hanaud. “Did you notice his accent when you stopped at the fork of the roads in the Val Terzon? He did not mount his cycle again. No!”
“And the man who carried in the—the sack?”
“Maurice Thevenet,” said Hanaud. “That promising young novice. He is now at the Depot. He will never get that good word from me which was to unlock Paris for him.”
“And Espinosa himself—who was to come here tomorrow—” he stopped abruptly with his eyes on Ann.
“And who murdered Jean Cladel, eh?” Hanaud went on. “A fool that fellow! Why use the Catalan’s knife in the Catalan’s way?” Hanaud looked at his watch. “It is over. No doubt Espinosa is under lock and key by now. And there are others, Monsieur, of whom you have never heard. The net has been cast wide tonight. Have no fear of that!”
Moreau returned with the keys and handed them to Hanaud. Hanaud put them into a pocket and went over to Ann Upcott.
“Mademoiselle, I shall not trouble you with any questions tonight. Tomorrow you will tell me why you went to Madame Le Vay’s ball. It was given out that you meant to run away. That, of course, was not true. You shall give me the real reason tomorrow and an account of what happened to you there.”
Ann shivered at the memories of that night, but she answered quietly.
“Yes. I will tell you everything.”
“Good. Then we can go,” said Hanaud cheerfully.
“Go?” Ann Upcott asked in wonderment. “But you have had us all locked in.”
Hanaud laughed. He had a little surprise to spring on the girl, and he loved surprises so long as they were of his own contriving.
“Monsieur Frobisher, I think, must have guessed the truth. This house, Mademoiselle, the Hôtel de Brebizart is very close, as the crow flies, to the Maison Grenelle. There is one row of houses, the houses of the street of Charles-Robert, between. It was built by Etienne Bouchart de Grenelle, President of the Parliament during the reign of Louis the Fifteenth, a very dignified and important figure; and he built it, Mademoiselle—this is the point—at the same time that he built the Maison Grenelle. Having built it, he installed in it a joyous lady of the province from which it takes its name—Madame de Brebizart. There was no scandal. For the President never came visiting Madame de Brebizart. And for the best of reasons. Between this house and the Maison Grenelle he had constructed a secret passage in that age of secret passages.”
Frobisher was startled. Hanaud had given credit to him for an astuteness which he did not possess. He had been occupied heart and brain by the events of the evening, so rapidly had they followed one upon the other, so little time had they allowed for speculations.
“How in the world did you discover this?” he asked.
“You shall know in due time. For the moment let us content ourselves with the facts,” Hanaud continued. “After the death of Etienne de Grenelle, at some period or another the secret of this passage was lost. It is clear, too, I think that it fell into disrepair and became blocked. At all events at the end of the eighteenth century, the Hôtel de Brebizart passed into other hands than those of the owner of the Maison Grenelle. Simon Harlowe, however, discovered the secret. He bought back the Hôtel de Brebizart, restored the passage and put it to the same use as old Etienne de Grenelle had done. For here Madame Raviart came to live during the years before the death of her husband set her free to marry Simon. There! My little lecture is over. Let us go!”
He bowed low to Ann like a lecturer to his audience and unlatched the double doors of the big buhl cabinet in the recess of the wall. A cry of surprise broke from Ann, who had risen unsteadily to her feet. The cabinet was quite empty. There was not so much as a shelf, and all could see that the floor of it was tilted up against one end and that a flight of steps ran downwards in the thickness of the wall.
“Come,” said Hanaud, producing his electric torch. “Will you take this, Monsieur Frobisher, and go first with Mademoiselle. I will turn out the lights and follow.”
But Ann with a little frown upon her forehead drew sharply back. She put a hand to Hanaud’s sleeve and steadied herself by it. “I will come with you,” she said. “I am not very steady on my legs.”
She laughed her action off but both men understood it. Jim Frobisher had thought her guilty—guilty of theft and murder. She shrank from him to the man who had had no doubt that she was innocent. And even that was not all. She was wounded by Jim’s distrust more deeply than anyone else could have wounded her. Frobisher inclined his head in acknowledgment and, pressing the button of the torch, descended five or six of the narrow steps. Moreau followed him.
“You are ready, Mademoiselle? So!” said Hanaud.
He put an arm about her to steady her and pressed up a switch by the open doors of the cabinet. The room was plunged in darkness. Guided by the beam of light, they followed Frobisher on to the steps. Hanaud closed the doors of the cabinet and fastened them together with the bolts.
“Forward,” he cried, “and you, Mademoiselle, be careful of your heels on these stone steps.”
When his head was just below the level of the first step he called upon Frobisher to halt and raise the torch. Then he slid the floor board of the cabinet back into its place. Beneath this a trapdoor
