d--we must try the cabs. But first...."

He turned toward the Prefecture and quickened his step, for suddenly he
scented a new danger. This white-haired man, then, was in the pay of
Germany. He had destroyed _La Liberte_ for a price--an immense price, no
doubt! And now he had gone to Paris. From there, where would he go? To
Brest, perhaps, to work similar mischief there. Lepine shivered a
little. The best men he had left at Paris must be sent to Brest with
instructions to arrest the fugitives at sight. Two people, so unusual in
appearance, would find it difficult to avoid the police in so small a
town. But in Paris--that was different. Yet even there something might
be done. And then there was always chance, divine chance, which might,
at any moment, deliver them into his hands. Ah, if only he were
strolling along the Boulevards, looking into this face and that!

"Decidedly, I must be getting back!" Lepine murmured; and, having
arrived at the Prefecture, he sent a long telegram to his assistant at
Paris and another to the Prefect at Brest. Then he summoned Pigot. "You
will interrogate the cabmen at the Gare Centrale," he said, "as to which
of them drove a white-haired man and a dark-haired girl to the station
for the Paris express, Monday morning. And, understand well, Pigot,
there must be no failure this time!" Then, as the door closed behind
Pigot's retiring figure, he slapped himself smartly on the forehead. "I
am a fool!" he cried, and hurried from the building and called a cab.

There are many dealers in electrical supplies at Toulon, and it was not
until he reached the fourth one that Lepine found a ray of light. No;
its proprietor had no recollection of any sales to strangers. A little
white-haired man? No. But stay--there _had_ been a white-haired man!
No, he had bought nothing. He had had a battery recharged--a heavy
battery of an unusual type. Yes, it had been delivered. One moment, and
the man slowly turned the pages of his ledger, while Lepine bit his lips
with impatience. Here it was--the address--80 Rue du Plasson, fourth
floor.

In another moment, Lepine's cab was rattling over the cobbles in the
direction of the quays.

"Faster! Faster!" he urged.

And then they were in the Rue du Plasson.

"Behold Number Eighty, sir," said the cabman, and pulled up sharply.

There was already a cab at the curb, and as Lepine jumped out, the door
of the house opened and Pigot appeared on the threshold. He stared