While Justine was held an unwilling listener to the detective’s cross-examinations at Lakemere, Judge Hiram Endicott was closeted below in a grave conference with Mrs. Willoughby, whereat Roundsman Dan Daly, looking sheepish enough in mufti, watched the pale-faced Mary Kelly’s slender fingers recording in shorthand all the directions of the silver-haired lawyer.
It was midnight before the entire domestic force at Lakemere were allowed to separate, after volunteering an examination of all their rooms and luggage. They knew not what had been stolen, but a vague distrust of each other was now written on all their sullen faces.
“This forces me to volunteer to do the same, and so, cuts off my lawsuit for damages,” snarled Justine, as she descended to find the rooms of her wearied mistress in darkness.
The hastily summoned counselors had departed to New York, without the Frenchwoman even learning of their identity. And now, in her loneliness, Justine Duprez became the prey to a sudden fear.
In the silence of the night she conjured up visions of a condign punishment reaching only herself. Her fellow-conspirator, her ignoble lover! If he could only be warned.
It was one o’clock when she stole out into the silent gardens dreaming around the mansion. It was a desperate plan, but it would warn her lover and accomplice. If she could only reach the village!
But it was two miles to the railroad station. Once there however, a French restaurateur, who was her slave, could send a dispatch to the old hag in charge of her rooms on South Fifth Avenue. She could even send a messenger boy down to warn Vreeland. And the letter which explained the dangers now threatening them all was hidden in her bosom, ready for the mail, and inclosed under cover to the old woman. The little haunt at the station was open all night for the trainsmen and freight handlers—a sort of all-night caravansera.
And she knew she could trust Pierre Gervais. A throb of guilty pride stirred her bosom. He was her easily subjugated slave, and her countryman.
Young, alert and active, the two miles of country road was nothing to the hardy Parisienne, child of the trottoirs. Her hand was already upon the latch of the nearest gate, as a dark form glided to her side. She was trapped!
“Rather late for a walk, Mademoiselle,” quietly remarked the detective, who had stolen after her noiselessly. “You must beware of the night air. It is treacherous.” In a sullen silence, Justine Duprez returned to the house. “Here is where you went out; I guess that you know the way back,” the detective meaningly said, as he resumed his steady tramp around the house. And the baffled woman slunk upstairs in a silent wrath.