"We've got to be sure about François, first."
"I'll find that out, tonight. My plan is this. We must first get the child away to Lavillac's place. This is too unsafe, here. Anyone might come in."
"They'd have difficulty in finding the hiding place." The younger man grinned.
"That's all very well; but the other place is safer. And then—Lavillac's woman can look after the brat while we are away. What a pity François had to get into a mess at the last moment! I hoped to be rid of the boy, by now." The older man rose and began striding up and down the room.
"Well," he said at length, sharply, "we might as well get along. I move that we wrap the boy in a coat, take him down to the car, run quickly out to Lavillac's place, leave him there, and start for Brussels at once. The rest we can do by 'phone. François set free—the boy the same. Meanwhile, we've got to show this man Stapleton we mean business; so we'd better arrange to send him one of the kid's hands at once. If we don't, he'll have the whole Paris police force after us."
"All right. I'll get him out." He strode quickly over to the statue, pulled out the side, and gazed blankly into the empty space before him.
"Sacré! The child's gone!" he exclaimed, excitedly. "Somebody has been here—in this room—since I left it, half an hour ago."
"The door was locked."
"I know; but somebody's been here, nevertheless, for the child is gone."
"He may not be gone, Durand. It is true that he is no longer in the house; but he may be in the room, for all that. Search the closet."