inlaid
with gold, similar to the one she wore about her own neck. "I am a
member of the secret police, as you know. This man is a traitor to his
duty, and for that he shall be punished. Arrest him," he said again to
his men.

Grace recoiled, and dropped the revolver she held to the floor. In all
her dread of the future, this was something upon which she had not
counted. Her husband arrested--possibly shot, or condemned to spend
years in some frightful military prison. She thought of Devil's Island,
where Dreyfus had been confined, and the horror of the situation
overcame her. Unable to resist longer, she sank upon the seat and burst
into tears.

The two gendarmes awakened Duvall roughly, and after informing him that
he was a prisoner, sat grimly down on either side of him. Dufrenne took
the seat beside Grace. The train had again begun to move--she realized
that they were once more flying toward Paris.

At first Duvall, in his stupor of sleep, did not realize what had
happened, but in a few moments he had grasped the situation. He did not
seem greatly concerned at his arrest, and Grace, her first paroxysm of
weeping having passed, looked at him in surprise. How brave he is! she
thought. Once she caught his eyes, but he made no sign. Apparently he
was resigned to his fate.

Dufrenne turned to her presently. "You, madame, are also under arrest,"
he remarked coldly.

"You have no right to do this thing," she exclaimed. "We have done the
best we could."

"No!" cried the little old Frenchman, his bent shoulders straightening,
his eyes flashing until he became a stern and vengeful figure. "No! You
have not done the best you could. Brave men--and brave women, die at
their posts of duty. You are cowards, both of you. Had I been in your
place, do you think I would have given in--do you think I would have
sold the honor of my country! _Mon Dieu!_ It is incredible! I am a
Frenchman, madame, and I have fought for France. I value my life as
nothing, where her welfare is concerned. I would have died a thousand
times, died as Frenchmen die, with '_Vive La France_,' on my lips,
before I would have uttered so much as a single word."

She made no reply to this. In his anger, the fragile old man seemed
inspired with the very spirit of patriotism, his withered cheeks took on
new color, his sunken eyes a new brightness. She felt ashamed--not for
Richard, for he had spoken only when she had forced him to do so, but
for herself. The