He saw but one chance of salvation--death. They now believed him to be one of the miserable loafers who haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were dead they would not trouble themselves about his identity. “It is the only way!” he thought, and he was indeed endeavouring to find some means of committing suicide, when suddenly he heard a bustle outside his cell. A few moments afterwards the door was opened and a man was thrust in--a man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily on to the floor, and then began to snore. The new arrival was apparently only some vulgar drunkard. A minute or so elapsed, and then a vague, strange hope touched Martial’s heart--no, he must be mistaken--and yet--yes, certainly this drunkard was Otto--Otto in disguise, and almost unrecognizable! It was a bold ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it. Martial stretched himself on a bench, as if to sleep, and in such a way that his head was close to Otto’s. “The duchess is out of danger,” murmured the faithful servant. “For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me everything will be discovered.” “Have you told them who you are?” “No; all the police agents but one took me for a vagabond.” “You must continue to personate that character.” “What good will it do? Jean Lacheneur will betray me.” But Martial, though he little knew it, had no need to fear Lacheneur for the present, at least. A few hours previously, on his way in the dark from the Rainbow to to the Poivriere, Jean had fallen to the bottom of a stone quarry, and fractured his skull. The labourers, on returning to their work early in the morning, found him lying there senseless; and that very moment they were carrying him to the hospital. Although Otto also was ignorant of this circumstances, he did not seem discouraged. “There will be some way of getting rid of Lacheneur,” said he, “if you will only sustain your present character. An escape is an easy matter when a man has millions at his command.” “They will ask me who I am, where I’ve come from, and how I’ve lived.” “You speak English and German, don’t you; tell them that you have just returned from foreign parts; that you were a foundling, and that you have always lived a roving life.” “How can I prove that?” Otto drew a little nearer his master, and said, impressively: “We must agree on our plans, for success depends on a perfect understanding between us. I have a sweetheart in Paris--and no one knows of our connection. She is as sharp as steel. Her name is Milner, and she keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg, in the Rue Saint-Quentin. You can say that you arrived here from Leipsic on Sunday; that you went to that hotel, that you left your trunk there, and that it has a card nailed to the top with your name--say May, foreign artist.”