vehicle on my way back to my lodgings.

I was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and I imagine that I slept
most of the way. Certain it is that the journey home was not nearly so
long as the outward one had been. The rain was still coming down
heavily, but I cared nothing about the weather, nothing about fatigue.
My path to fame and fortune had been made easier for me than in my
wildest dreams I would have dared to hope. In the morning I would see
Leroux and make final arrangements for the capture of those impudent
smugglers, and I thought the best way would be for him to meet me and
the "babies" and the "toys" at the very outset of our journey, as I
did not greatly relish the idea of crossing lonely and dangerous
mountain paths in the company of these ruffians.

I reached home without adventure. The vehicle drew up just outside my
lodgings, and I was about to alight when my eyes were attracted by
something white which lay on the front seat of the carriage,
conspicuously placed so that the light from the inside lanthorn fell
full upon it. I had been too tired and too dazed, I suppose, to notice
the thing before, but now, on closer inspection, I saw that it was a
note, and that it was addressed to me: "M. Aristide Barrot,
Interpreter," and below my name were the words: "Very urgent."

I took the note feeling a thrill of excitement running through my
veins at its touch. I alighted, and the vehicle immediately
disappeared into the night. I had only caught one glimpse of the
horses, and none at all of the coachman. Then I went straight into my
room, and by the light of the table lamp I unfolded and read the
mysterious note. It bore no signature, but at the first words I knew
that the writer was none other than the lovely young creature who had
appeared to me like an angel of innocence in the midst of that den of
thieves.

* * * * *

"Monsieur," she had written in a hand which had clearly been trembling
with agitation, "you are good, you are kind; I entreat you to be
merciful. My dear mother, whom I worship, is sick with terror and
misery. She will die if she remains any longer under the sway of that
inhuman monster who, alas! is my own brother. And if I lose her I
shall die, too, for I should no longer have anyone to stand between me
and his cruelties.

"My dear mother has some relations living at St. Claude. She would
have gone to them before now, but my brother keeps us