"Mr. Warburton," he says courteously, "I see that I am here in time. I trust that you have suffered nothing at the hands of my colleague, save his impertinence. Van, your game is ended. You've played it like a man, but you were in the wrong and you have failed. Thank your stars that your final blunder has been nipped in the bud. Alan Warburton is an innocent man. The murderer, if you choose to call him such, is safely lodged in jail by now." But Van Vernet says never a word. He only gazes at the transformed ex-convict as if fascinated. Another gaze is riveted upon him also. Leslie Warburton leans forward, her lips parted, her face eager; she seems listening rather than seeing. Slowly a look of relieved intelligence creeps into her face, and swiftly the red blood suffuses cheek and brow. Then she comes forward, her hands extended. "Mr. Stanhope, is it--was it _you_?" "It is and was myself, Mrs. Warburton. There is no other Franz Francoise in existence. The part I assumed was a hideous one, but it was necessary." "Stanhope!" At the name, Alan Warburton starts forward. "Are you Richard Stanhope?" [Illustration: "Vernet utters an imprecation, and turning swiftly, is face to face with Franz Francoise!"--page 425.] "I am." And then, as he catches the reflection of his half disguised self in a mirror, he gives vent to a short laugh. "We form quite a contrast, my friend Vernet and I," he says with a downward glance at his uncouth garments. "Mr. Warburton, we--for your brother's wife has done more than I--have brought back your little one. And I have managed to keep you out of the clutches of this mistaken Expert, or at least to prevent his 'grip' from doing you any serious damage. Of course you are anxious to hear all about it, but I am waited for at head-quarters; my story, to make it comprehensible, must needs be a long one, and I have asked Mr. Follingsbee to meet me there. He can soon put you in possession of the facts. Now a word of suggestion: This lady," glancing towards Leslie, "has been very ill; she is still weak. She has fought a brave fight, and but for her your little girl might still be missing. She needs rest. Do not press her to tell her story now. When you have heard my report from Mr. Follingsbee, you will comprehend everything." Leslie sinks back upon the divan, for she is indeed weak. Her face flushes and pales, her hands tremble, and her eyes follow the movements of the detective with strange fixedness. Then she catches little Daisy in her arms, and holding her thus, looks again at their rescuer. Meantime, Van Vernet has seemed like a man dazed; has stood gazing from one to the other, listening, wondering, gnawing his thin under lip. But now he turns slowly and makes a signal to his two assistants, who, like himself, have been stunned into automatons by the sudden change of events.