“Ah, but he will now,” put in M. Meunier; “the brave Carter! He can speak now. He signalled to me by means of the half-drawn curtain when he was arrested that he would say nothing till I gave the word. It was part of our contract, and vitally necessary, but the time for silence will have passed once these papers are in safe keeping, as they will be before morning. See, here is ‘Yes’”—he handed her a slip of paper from his pocket-book—“that means just that to our friend—‘Yes, you can speak. Yes, a great, an immense fortune is yours. Yes, all is well, and if we get M. Beale——’” “Hush!” A light ring sounded at the door. Pointer glanced at his watch. “That's him. Now, then, Daru, see that you play your part well.” The man nodded eagerly. The three took their places inside the room which opened out of the one they had been in. “But why aren't they in here? And the papers—the papers, where are they? Quick!” “I have them,” the head clerk answered calmly. He was acting most convincingly. “I have the papers, monsieur, but I think we should have a little further understanding before I hand them over. I think you should raise the price you promised if all went well. All has gone well. What do you suggest?” Mr. Beale looked at him a moment in silence. “Not one cent more will I pay. You don't know whom you're talking to. I'm not a man to browbeat. Our terms were generous and you accepted them. I don't say that we won't add an extra something if the papers are what we think, but that will be after they are in our hands, not before. And now, no nonsense, my man; I'm armed.” “Here are the papers, then,” the clerk said sulkily. Mr. Beale snatched them from him, then he spun around on his heel. “Who signed—what—” his eyes had fallen on the signature of the second witness, “Alfred Pointer, Chief Inspector, New Scotland Yard, London.” “Evening, Mr. Beale.” The signatory in person stepped into the room, bowed civilly, and passed on through the other door. “Come this way, Daru. M. Meunier wishes to talk with the gentleman.” Christine made a motion to follow, but the Frenchman stopped her. “By no means, mademoiselle. You represent the interests of your friend. Pray be seated here. Now, monsieur, let us have an understanding. These papers belong to me. Thank you”—as he took them over—“They are worth much to you?” “It's a trap.” Mr. Beale looked dangerous. “I see! It's a damned trap.” “But exactly! And behold you in it! In the very middle of it; and the trap, my friend, is a good one, very strong. Now, to begin again—on the one hand there is the 'phone there by mademoiselle, and the Préfecture, and a French prison——” “I guess not! I'm an American, an editor of——” The Frenchman shrugged amused shoulders.