Francois did not exactly deny.  There were no listeners here.  “It would be impossible for her to escape,” he answered rather sullenly.

“Then she did broach a plan—­one you refused to accede to.  What was it?”

“Mere madness!” Scoffingly.  “Mademoiselle may be generous, and mon Dieu! very persuasive, but she doesn’t get me to—­”

“What was her proposal?  Answer.”  Sternly.  “You can’t incriminate yourself here.”

Francois knew that.  The cell was remote.  There could be no harm in letting the talk drift a little further.  He replied, briefly outlining the plan.

“Excellent!” observed Mr. Heatherbloom.

“Mere madness!” reiterated Francois.

“Not at all.  But if it were, some people would, under the circumstances,” with subtle accent, “gladly undertake it—­just as you will!” he added.

“Oh, will I?” Ironically.

“Yes, when you hear all I have to say.  In the first place, I relinquish all claim to the reward.  Sufficient for me—­” And Mr. Heatherbloom mumbled something about the czar.

“Bah!  That sounds very well, only there wouldn’t be any reward,” retorted Francois.  “The prince would only capture us again and then—­” He shrugged.  “I know his temper and have no desire for the longer voyage with old man Charon—­”

“Wait!” More aggressively.  “I have not done.  No one will suspect that you have been here to-nigh’t?” he asked.

“Does monsieur think I am a fool?  No, no!  And now my little errand for mademoiselle being finished—­”

“You can do as Miss Dalrymple wishes, achieve an embarrassment of riches, and run no risk whatever yourself.”

“Indeed?” Starting slightly.

“At least, no appreciable one.”  Mr. Heatherbloom explained his plan quickly.  Francois listened, at first with open skepticism, then with growing interest.

“Mon Dieu!  If it were possible!” he muttered.  South-of-France imagination had again been appealed to.  “But no—­”

“Remember all the reward will be for you”—­swiftly—­“sufficient to buy vineyards and settle down for a life of peace and plenty—­” Francois’ eyes wavered; any Frenchman would have found the picture enticing.  Already the beautiful American girl had, as Mr. Heatherbloom suspected, surreptitiously thrust several valuable jewels upon the youth as a reward for this preliminary service.  Having experienced a foretaste of riches, Francois perhaps secretly longed for more of the glittering gems and for some of those American dollars which sounded five times as large in francs.  Besides, this man, the great detective, or emissary, inspired confidence; his tones were vibrant, compelling.

“And for you, Monsieur?—­the risk for you—­” Francois faltered.

“Never mind about me.  You consent?”

The other swallowed, muttered a monosyllable in a low tone.

“Then—­” Heatherbloom murmured a few instructions.  “Miss Dalrymple is not to know.”