"Sorry, Monsieur le Général, but no fault of mine! I made sure they had gone to Paris by the last courier, if not before. The originals, undoubtedly." "You make sure in a queer sort of way," said Ratoneau. "You told me the Prefect's secretary was in your hands, that you had access to his bureaux at any time. You lied, then?" "No, Monsieur le Général," Simon answered, gently and readily. "Or how should I have got hold of the papers? We have nothing to do now but to get them dispatched at once to the Minister of Police, who will pass them on to Monsieur le Duc de Frioul." "Go downstairs, and wait till I send for you." Simon went, not without a side-glance at the silent young officer, standing tall, fair, and stiff as if on parade, no feeling of any sort showing itself through the correctness of his bearing. "Is that her brother? Curious!" the spy muttered as he slipped away. General Ratoneau ran his eye once more over the paper in his hand, then looked at Georges and held it out to him. "The delay is vexatious," he said, "and my friend the Prefect shall pay for it, one of these days. But at any rate, the thing is now in our own hands, and there can be no cheating. Report and letter are what they should be--I might have guessed that the old villain would put off sending them--hoping for some loophole, I suppose. However, you can tell Madame la Comtesse that you have seen the documents, and that they start for Paris to-night." Georges de Sainfoy read the document, truly a strange one, and it was a strange sort of man who had the effrontery to put it into his hand. Like a flash of blinding light, it showed the revolutionary, the tyrannical side of the Empire which had fascinated him on its side of military glory. This paper gave a full description, as officially demanded, of Mademoiselle Hélène de Sainfoy, aged nineteen. It mentioned her personal attractions, her _éducation distinguée_, her probable dowry, the names and position of her parents, the extent and situation of her property--in short, every particular likely to be useful in arranging a marriage for Mademoiselle de Sainfoy. It was all highly complimentary, and it was supposed to be a confidential communication from the Prefect to Savary, Duc de Rovigo, the Minister of Police. But it was not pleasant reading for Mademoiselle de Sainfoy's brother, however devotedly imperialist he might be. He stepped forward and laid it on the table without a remark. Ratoneau, watching him keenly, smiled, and held out the letter. "A private letter from Monsieur le Préfet? I do not read it," said Georges, shortly.