M. Barbey set out for England at once, and came back a fortnight later, already possessed of a mass of valuable information regarding the early life of our English Royalist, including this specific item: Lady Atkyns died in Paris, in the Rue de Lille, in 1836. An application to the _greffe de paix_ of the _arrondissement_ resulted in M. Barbey’s obtaining the name of the notary who had the drawing up of the deeds of succession. At the offices of the present courteous possessor of the documents, after any amount of formalities and delays and difficulties, over which his untiring pertinacity enabled him to triumph, he was at last placed in possession of an immense pile of dusty papers, which had not been touched for nearly seventy years: the entire correspondence addressed to Lady Atkyns from 1792 down to the time of her death. That was a red-letter day! From the very first letters that were looked at, it seemed that henceforth all doubts would be at an end: the Royal youth had assuredly been carried away from the Temple! Between the lines, beneath all the studiously vague and discreet wording of the correspondence, we were able to follow, in one letter after another, all the plotting and planning of the escape, the anxieties of the conspirators, the precautions they had to take, the disappointments, the treacheries, the hopes.... At last, we were on the threshold of the actual day of the escape! Another week would find us face to face with the Dauphin! Three days more...! To-morrow...! Alas! our disappointment was great--almost as great as that of Lady Atkyns’s fellow-workers. The boy never came into their hands. _Did_ he escape? Everything points to his having done so, but everything points also to his having been spirited away out of their hands just as he was being embarked for England, where Lady Atkyns awaited feverishly the coming of the child she called her King--her King to whose cause she made her vows, but on whose face she was destined probably never to set eyes, and whose fate was for ever to remain to her unknown. Such is the story we are told in this book of Frédéric Barbey’s--a painful, saddening, exasperating story, extracted (is it necessary to add?) from documents of incontestable authenticity, now made use of for the first time.