In the silence of the night she conjured up visions of a condign punishment reaching only herself. Her fellow-conspirator, her ignoble lover! If he could only be warned. It was one o’clock when she stole out into the silent gardens dreaming around the mansion. It was a desperate plan, but it would warn her lover and accomplice. If she could only reach the village! But it was two miles to the railroad station. Once there however, a French restaurateur, who was her slave, could send a dispatch to the old hag in charge of her rooms on South Fifth Avenue. She could even send a messenger boy down to warn Vreeland. And the letter which explained the dangers now threatening them all was hidden in her bosom, ready for the mail, and inclosed under cover to the old woman. The little haunt at the station was open all night for the trainsmen and freight handlers—a sort of all-night caravansera. And she knew she could trust Pierre Gervais. A throb of guilty pride stirred her bosom. He was her easily subjugated slave, and her countryman. Young, alert and active, the two miles of country road was nothing to the hardy Parisienne, child of the _trottoirs_. Her hand was already upon the latch of the nearest gate, as a dark form glided to her side. She was trapped! “Rather late for a walk, Mademoiselle,” quietly remarked the detective, who had stolen after her noiselessly. “You must beware of the night air. It is treacherous.” In a sullen silence, Justine Duprez returned to the house. “Here is where you went out; I guess that you know the way back,” the detective meaningly said, as he resumed his steady tramp around the house. And the baffled woman slunk upstairs in a silent wrath. Safe in her room, Justine Duprez hastened to burn the letter which now weighed upon her breast with a crushing weight. “My God! If it had been daylight and they had searched me! Then, the prison cell would have received me.” With chattering teeth she crept to a corner, and, unlocking her trunk, took a deep draught from the brandy bottle. She eyed herself in the glass. Her face was the very image of guilt. Its mien was that of a hunted woman. “There will soon be trouble for others now,” she defiantly said. “The only story that will save me from prison for this attempt is the lame one of a lover in the village. _Va banc!_ I have lost my place anyway; my character can follow it. This cool woman below is not deceived. They have cut all our wires. I am to be dogged to death here, day by day. But they can prove absolutely nothing as to the cursed paper. And my character is just as good as before.”