"Ten days ago," the man went on, in a cold and menacing voice, "the child of Monsieur Stapleton was taken from his nurse in the Bois de Boulogne. You are trying to find that child."
"But—" Grace made a movement of protest.
"It is useless to deny it. You have been watched."
Grace gasped in silence.
"I desire to send a message to the boy's father, and I have chosen you to take it to him. I have selected you, because to send one of my own men would doubtless result in his arrest. That is why you have been brought here."
"The—the child is safe?" asked Grace.
"Perfectly. You shall see for yourself." He motioned to the window.
Grace rose, and looked out. The view comprised a bit of garden, surrounded by bushes. She could see nothing beyond—nothing that would enable her in any way to identify the place. On the tiny plat of grass in the garden sat a child—a little girl, playing with a small black and white spaniel. Her dark hair was drawn tightly beneath a pink sunbonnet. Her dress, her whole appearance, was that of a peasant child.
Grace turned from the window, bewildered. "I see nothing," she said, "except a little girl—"
"That is the child of Monsieur Stapleton," the man said. "Now attend to the message."