“The third officer has the keys and our cabins are adjoining.  I seized an opportune moment, slipped in, and took a wax impression of what I wanted.  Then with an old key and a file—­Monsieur is a great detective, perhaps, but I, too,” with Gaston boastfulness, “can aspire to a little cleverness.”

“A great deal,” said Mr. Heatherbloom, the while his brain worked rapidly.  Betty Dalrymple must have paid the youth well for serving her thus far.  Thrift, as well as sentiment, seemed to shine from Francois’ eloquent dark eyes.  Could he be induced to espouse her cause yet further?

“Monsieur must not think I would prove disloyal to his excellency, my employer,” spoke up the youth as if reading what had been passing through the other’s mind.  “There could be no harm in a mere inquiry as to monsieur’s state of health.”

“None at all,” assented the prisoner quickly.  “Though”—­a sudden inspiration came to Mr. Heatherbloom—­“contingencies may arise when one can best serve those who employ him by secretly opposing them.”

“I don’t understand, Monsieur,” said Francois cautiously.

“The prince is a madman.  By incurring the enmity of his Imperial Master he would rush on to his own destruction.  Suppose by this misalliance, the very map of Europe itself were destined to be changed?”

The words sounded portentous, and Francois stared.  He had imagination.  The beautiful American girl had told him that this man before him was a great and daring detective.  He spoke now even as an emissary of the czar himself.  The prince was a high lord, close to the throne.  These were deep waters.  The youth looked troubled; Mr. Heatherbloom allowed the thought he had inspired to sink in.

“What is our first port?” his voice, more authoritative, now demanded.

Francois mentioned an island.

“When do we get there?”

“We are near it to-night but on account of the rocks and reefs, I heard the captain say we would slow down, so as not to enter the harbor until daybreak.”

Daybreak!  And then?  Mr. Heatherbloom closed his eyes; when he again opened them they revealed none of the poignant emotion that had swept over him.  “What time is it now?”

“About ten.”

“My jailer—­the third officer, you say—­visits this cell once every night.  Do you know what time he comes?”

“I shouldn’t be here, Monsieur, at this moment, if I didn’t know that.  He comes in an hour, after his watch is over, with the bread and water—­monsieur’s frugal fare.  And now”—­those apprehensions, momentarily dulled by wonderment seemed returning to Francois—­“I will bid monsieur—­”

“Stay!  One moment!” Mr. Heatherbloom’s accents were feverish, commanding.  “You must—­in the name of the czar!—­for the prince’s sake!—­for hers—­for—­for the reward—­”

“Monsieur!” Again that flicker of indignation.

Mr. Heatherbloom swept it aside.  “She has asked you to help her escape?” he demanded swiftly.