"Oh—in a week or two, after we are safely away, François will sprain his wrist, and be forced to give up his position as Monsieur Stapleton's chauffeur. He will join us in New York."
The younger man puffed meditatively at his cigarette. "What's become of that woman Lefevre had snooping around? Seen anything of her, since last night?"
"No. She hasn't been about. Not much danger of her finding out anything."
The other rubbed his chin, in deep thought. "She nearly got you, last night," he presently remarked.
"Oh, no. Not a chance. I knew she was in the house, and I figured she would telephone to headquarters as soon as she learned who I was. All I had to do was to signal you, through the window, and the thing was done. Of course I didn't expect the Prefect's man to get there quite as soon as he did; but you handled him all right." As he spoke, the man rose, went to a small mirror that hung on the wall, and carefully removed the black beard which was so distinguishing a feature of his appearance.
"Pretty hot, this thing," he announced, as he threw it on the table. "Got anything to drink about? I'm thirsty."
Grace saw, as he turned toward her, that he bore a striking resemblance to the masked man who had given her the first message to Mr. Stapleton, in the room of the house on the road to Versailles. She trembled as she heard him ask for the drink. Suppose the bottle should be in the closet? She shrunk back in terror as the younger man rose and started toward her.
Her alarm was needless, however. The fellow drew open one of the drawers of a small dresser that stood on the opposite side of the room, and took out a light green bottle. "Absinthe?" he inquired.
"All right. One won't do any harm. Don't take any more, though." He began to pour out the drink into a glass which stood upon the table. "When you get the signal from François," he went on, "you are to answer it, as usual, so he'll know you've seen him. He doesn't want to stay in his room very long—for fear he might be missed."
"They suspect him, of course."