The man laughed softly. A thousand francs apiece for him and Antoine, and no possible chance of being discovered. Let the police find the house in Versailles; let them trace whatever paths they found; the agent would tell them, and honestly, that an aged man had rented the house for a month and had paid him in advance. What more could the agent say? Only one bit of puzzlement: why hadn’t the blond stranger appeared? Who was he, in truth, and what had been his game? All this waiting and wondering, and then a curt telegram of the night before, saying, “Release her.” So much the better. What his employer’s motives were did not interest him half so much as the fact that he had a thousand francs in his pocket, and that all element of danger had been done away with. True, the singer herself would move heaven and earth to find out who had been back of the abduction. Let her make her accusations. He was out of it.
He glanced toward the forward part of the tram. There she sat, staring at the white road ahead. A young Frenchman sat near her, curling his mustache desperately. So beautiful and all alone! At length he spoke to her. She whirled upon him so suddenly that his hat fell off his head and rolled at the feet of the onlooker.
“Your hat, Monsieur?” he said gravely, returning it.
Nora laughed maliciously. The author of the abortive flirtation fled down to the body of the tram.
And now there was no one on top but Nora and her erstwhile jailer, whom she did not recognize in the least.
“Mademoiselle,” said the great policeman soberly, “this is a grave accusation to make.”
“I make it, nevertheless,” replied Nora. She sat stiffly in her chair, her face colorless, dark circles under her eyes. She never looked toward Courtlandt.
“But Monsieur Courtlandt has offered an alibi such as we can not ignore. More than that, his integrity is vouched for by the gentleman at his side, whom doubtless Mademoiselle recognizes.”
Nora eyed the great man doubtfully.