“That woman is a genius,” he said, at last. “I admire her. She baffled us so completely. Your concierge told my men he had sent you to the Rue du Chevet, and we scoured the quarter from top to bottom, but could find no trace of you. It is not often my men fail, M. le Moyne, but how were they to suspect the existence of a cavern thirty feet underground? I must see it for myself, some day. And the girl--well, we found no trace of the girl, either, nor of Madame Basarge, nor of this gamine you say she had with her--they must have had another hiding-place.” But my brain was busy with another problem. “You said, M. le Comte,” I began, “that a daughter of the confectioner Durand was missing. Was she ever found?” “She was never found. Ah, I see,” and he looked at me suddenly. “This gamine--how old was she?” I shook my head. “I do not know, Monsieur. She might have been fifteen--twenty--twenty-five--she was old enough to love.” “Well,” he cried, “I venture the guess that it was Durand’s daughter. The woman’s object in stealing the child always puzzled me, but now I understand--she wanted some one upon whom she might wreak her hatred.” That was it--in a flash I saw it. Some one upon whom to wreak her hatred--some one to torture! Ah, Ninon, what a fate was yours! The opening of the door brought me from my thoughts, and I turned to see an attendant enter. “Your carriage is waiting, M. le Comte,” he announced. “Very well,” cried d’Argenson, springing to his feet and seizing his cloak and hat. “I am going with you myself, M. le Moyne, for I am curious to witness this little coup de théâtre. It is not often that I give myself a treat of this kind,” and he led the way into the ante-chamber. “Here, Bernin,” he called to an officer who was standing there, “you will deliver this order to the jailer of the conciergerie at once,” and he handed him the paper containing the sentence of Mère Fouchon. Her hour had struck, indeed! “Come with me, Monsieur,” he added to me and led the way rapidly down the steps and to the carriage. “We have ample time,” he said, as the carriage started. “It is yet twenty minutes of nine o’clock. I imagine that these good people whom we are going to surprise will believe they see a ghost when you appear before them,” he added, with a smile. “Upon my word, I doubt if even the charming Nanette will know you. You are enough to frighten a woman half to death.” “There was no time,” I said, “or I should have changed my garments.” “No, no,” cried d’Argenson, “I would not have one speck of dirt less. Believe me, with that bloody head, those torn hands, those filthy clothes, those haggard eyes--and above everything, with that belt of iron about your waist--you are admirable!” He looked at me in silence for a moment, as the carriage rolled along the Rue St. Honoré. “M. le Moyne,” he said suddenly, “I need not tell you we have no proof that there is really a conspiracy between Ribaut and Briquet?”