The plotters gazed upon each other with pale and terror-stricken faces, for it was evident that the fresh brick wall, the work of Mascarin and Beaumarchef, was being destroyed. The Duke sat in perfect amazement, for the alarm of his host and his friends was plainly evident. He could feel Paul’s hand tremble in his, but could not understand why work evidently going on in the next house could cause such feelings of alarm. Flavia was the only one who had no suspicion, and she remarked, “Dear me! I should like to know the meaning of this disturbance.” “I will send and inquire,” said her father; but scarcely had he opened the door than he retreated with a wild expression of terror in his face, and his arms stretched out in front of him, as though to bar the approach of some terrible spectre. In the doorway stood an eminently respectable-looking gentleman, wearing a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, and behind him a commissary of police, girt with his official scarf, while farther back still were half a dozen police officers. “M. Lecoq,” cried the three confederates in one breath, while through their minds flashed the same terrible idea--“We are lost.” The celebrated detective advanced slowly into the room, curiously watching the group collected there. There was an air of entire satisfaction visible on his countenance. “Aha!” he said, “I was right, it seems. I was sure that I was making no mistake in rapping at the other side of the wall. I knew that it would be heard in here.” By this time, however, the banker had, to all outward appearance, regained his self-command. “What do you want here?” asked he insolently. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?” “This gentleman will explain,” returned Lecoq, stepping aside to make way for the commissary of police to come forward. “But, to shorten matters, I may tell you that I have obtained a warrant for your arrest, Martin Rigal, _alias_ Tantaine, _alias_ Mascarin.” “I don’t understand you!” “Indeed. Do you think that Tantaine has cleaned his hands so completely that not a drop of Andre’s blood clings to the fingers of Martin Rigal?” “On my word, you are speaking in riddles.” A bland smile passed over Lecoq’s face as, drawing a folded letter from his pocket, he answered,-- “Perhaps you are acquainted with the handwriting of your daughter. Well, then, listen to what she wrote not so very long ago to the very Paul who is sitting on the sofa there. “‘MY DEAREST PAUL,-- “‘We should be guilty of the deepest ingratitude if----’” “Enough! Enough!” cried the banker in a hoarse voice. “Lost, lost, lost! My own child has been my ruin!” The calmest of the conspirators was now the one who was generally the first to take alarm, and this was the genial Doctor Hortebise. When he recognized Lecoq, he had gently opened his locket and taken from it a small pellet of grayish-colored paste, and, holding it between his fingers, had waited until his leader should declare that all hope was gone.