I saw that dewy sparkle, and wondered, sickeningly, if the enemy saw it too.  But I had not long to wait before being satisfied on this point.  The keen-eyed Frenchman gave no further instructions to his baffled subordinates, but crossing the room to the sofa stood staring at it fixedly.  Then, grasping the back with his capable-looking hand, instead of beginning at once a quest which his gendarmes had abandoned, he searched the face of the tortured woman.

Unflinching in courage, she seemed not to see him.  But it was as if she had suddenly ceased to breathe.  Her bosom no longer rose and fell.  The only movement was the visible knocking of her heart.  I felt that, in another moment, if he found what she had hidden, her heart would knock no longer, and she would die.  For a second I wildly counted the chances of overpowering all three men, stunning them into unconsciousness, and giving Maxine time to escape with the letter-case.  But I knew the attempt would be useless.  Even if I could succeed, the noise would arouse the hotel.  People would come.  Other policemen would rush in to the help of their comrades, and matters would be worse with us than before.

The Frenchman, having looked at Maxine, and seen that tell-tale beating of her bodice, deliberately laid the silk cushions on the floor.  Then, pushing his hand down between the seat and the back of the sofa, he moved it along the crevice inch by inch.

I watched the hand, which looked cruel to me as that of an executioner.  I think Maxine watched it, too.  Suddenly it stopped.  It had found something.  The other hand sprang to its assistance.  Both worked together, groping and prying for a few seconds:  evidently the something hidden had been forced deeply and firmly down.  Then, up it came—­a dark red leather case, which was neither a letter-case nor a jewel-case, but might be used for either.  My heart almost stopped beating in the intense relief I felt.  For this was not the thing I had come from London to bring Maxine.

I could hardly keep back a cry of joy.  But I did keep it back, for suspense and anxiety had left me a few grains of sense.

“Voila!” grunted the Commissary of Police.  “I said that you were clever, Mademoiselle.  But it would have been as well for all concerned if you had spared us this trouble.”

“You alone are to blame for the trouble,” answered Maxine.  “I never saw that thing before in my life.”

I was astonished that there was no ring of satisfaction in her voice.  It sounded hard and defiant, but there was no triumph in it, no joy that, so far, she was saved—­as if by a miracle.  Rather was her tone that of a woman at bay, fighting to the last, but without hope.  “Nor did I ever see it before.”  I echoed her words.

She glanced at me as if with gratitude.  Yet there was no need for gratitude.  I was not lying for her sake, but speaking the plain truth, as I thought that she must know.