Vernet, followed by the Prefect, and the chauffeur, who had at once joined them, dashed fearlessly along the dark passage by which the two men were attempting to escape.
There was a crash, as the rear door was burst out, followed by a volley of shots as Vernet opened upon the fleeing men with his automatic revolver.
In a moment the affair was over. The foremost of the two men crumpled up before he had taken half a dozen strides through the garden, and his companion raised his hands and surrendered, begging for mercy. Within a few moments he was handcuffed, and Vernet, bending over his wounded companion, was directing the chauffeur to summon an ambulance at once.
Monsieur Lefevre returned hastily to the street. His sole concern now was for Grace. He prayed fervently that no serious harm had befallen her, and realized that Duvall was likely to resent bitterly the deception which has been practised upon him.
The latter, however, was in no mood for recriminations. No sooner had he carried his unconscious burden to the street, when Grace opened her eyes, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
"Richard—Richard!" she cried, happily. "I'm so glad—so glad!" then rested content in his arms.
The detective's brain was in a whirl. In no possible way could he account for the presence here, in Paris, under such tragic and inexplicable circumstances, of the wife whom he had left, so short a time before, peacefully sitting on the rosecovered porch of their home in Maryland. The thing seemed incredible, unbelievable; yet here was Grace, with her soft arms about his neck, her kisses on his lips, to prove its reality.
He looked at Monsieur Lefevre dully as the latter joined them upon the sidewalk, but could say nothing.
"It seems," remarked the Prefect, with a grave smile, "that not only has Mr. Stapleton found his boy, but you have found your wife."
Duvall frowned. "What is she doing here?" he asked.