But what to do with that mad woman up-stairs? Hargreave advised them to wait. The house was surrounded; she could not possibly escape save by one method, and perhaps that would be the best for her. Hargreave looked gravely at Norton as he offered this suggestion. The reporter understood: the millionaire was willing to give the woman a chance. "And you are my father?" said Florence, still bewildered by the amazing events. "But I don't understand yet!" her gaze roving from the real Jones to her father. "I don't doubt it, child," said Hargreave. "I'll explain. When I hired Jones here, who is really Jedson of the Scotland Yard, I did so because we looked alike when shaven. It was Jedson here who escaped by the balloon; it was Jedson who returned the five thousand to Norton, who watched the countess' apartment; it was Jedson who was wounded in the arm. I myself guarded you, my child. Last night, unbeknown to you, I left and the real Jones--for it is easier to call him that!--took my place." "And I never saw the difference!" exclaimed Florence. "That is natural," smiled her father. "You were thinking of Norton here instead of me. Eh?" Florence blushed. "Well, why not? Here, Norton!" The millionaire took Florence's hand and placed it in the reporter's. "It seems that I've got to lose her after all. Kiss her, man; in heaven's name, kiss her!" And Norton threw his arms around the girl and kissed her soundly, careless of the fact that he was observed by both enemies and friends. [Illustration: A QUICK CLUTCH AND THE POLICEMAN HAD HER BY THE WRIST] Suddenly the policeman who had been standing by the side of Braine ran into the living-room. "He's alive! Braine's alive; he just stirred." "What?" exclaimed Norton and Hargreave in a single breath. "Yes, sir! I saw his hands move. It's a good thing we sent for a doctor. He ought to be along about now." Even as he spoke the bell rang: and they all surged out into the hall, forgetting for the moment all about the million. Olga hadn't killed the man, then? The doctor knelt beside the stricken man and examined him. He shrugged. "Will he live?" "Certainly. A scalp wound, that laid him out for a few moments. He'll be all right in a few days. He was lucky. A quarter of an inch lower, and he'd have passed in his checks." "Good!" murmured Servan. "So our friend will accompany me back to good Russia? Oh, we'll be kind to him during the journey. Have him taken to the hospital ward at the Tombs. Now, for the little lady up-stairs."