"And went by the name of Jules von Dressdorf?"
"Yes."
"Then, by the lord Harry! Master Mortimer, you've immortalized yourself. You've abducted the most accomplished little dame d'industrie Paris ever produced—you've snatched from under the very noses of a cordon of French and Flemish police the princess of adventuresses, Adèle de la Voix, spy, thief, forger—ay, and if suspicion points truly, murderess—for she is believed to have poisoned an accomplice at Ghent after consummating the robbery of the Comtesse de Nemour's jewels. A pretty piece of business truly."
I was dazed. He handed me the journal, and I read for myself the whole of the infamous plot.
"By George, that boarding-school dodge was an excellent one, worthy of her greatness—threw the police off the scent for ten days," said Harvey with a grin.
"Then, when the police got on the right track again," he continued, "it was too late; she had eloped with you. O Lord, it's too good," and he lay back in his chair and roared.
"By heavens, if you are not quiet, I'll pitch you out of the window."
"No, you won't. If you move a finger, I'll write and tell Gwennie Grey all about your elopement. Why, man, if you were a child of grace, you'd go down on your knees and implore me not to give you two columns in the 'Growler.' There, I was only joking. Don't look so blue. But I confess it's a strong temptation. Such sensations don't crop up every day; besides, messieurs the police are dying to know how la belle Adèle crossed the frontier."
"Do you think," I said wearily, "that the proprietor of the pension was an accomplice?"
"Most assuredly not. He is an old resident, and gave his testimony with tears in his eyes, assuring the court that Jules von Dressdorf was one of the most docile, intelligent pupils he ever had under his roof."