“You have no proof of it!” shouted Groener.

“No?  What is this?” and he signaled the operator, whereupon the lights went down and the picture of Alice and the widow appeared again.  “There is the girl whom you have wronged and defrauded.  Now watch the woman, your Brussels accomplice, watch her carefully—­carefully,” he motioned to the operator and the smooth young widow faded gradually, while the face and form of another woman took her place beside the girl.  “Now we have the picture as it was before you falsified it.  Do you recognize this face?”

“No,” answered the prisoner, but his heart was pounding.

“It is your wife.  Look!”

Under the picture came the inscription:  “To my dear husband Raoul with the love of Margaret and her little Mary.”

“I wish we had the dial on him now,” whispered Duprat to M. Paul.

“There are your two victims!” accused the magistrate.  “Mary and Margaret!  How long do you suppose it will take us to identify them among the Charity Bazaar unfortunates?  It is a matter of a few hours’ record searching.  What must we look for?  A rich American lady who married a Frenchman.  Her name is Margaret.  She had a daughter named Mary.  The Frenchman’s name is Raoul and he probably has a title.  We have, also, the lady’s photograph and the daughter’s photograph and a specimen of the lady’s handwriting.  Could anything be simpler?  The first authority we meet on noble fortune hunters will tell us all about it.  And then, M. Adolf Groener, we shall know whether it is a, marquis or a duke whose name must be added to the list of distinguished assassins.”

He paused for a reply, but none came.  The guard moved suddenly in the shadows and called for help.

“Lights!” said the doctor sharply and, as the lamps shone out, the prisoner was seen limp and white, sprawling over a chair.

Duprat hurried to him and pressed an ear to his heart.

“He has fainted,” said the doctor.

Coquenil looked half pityingly at his stricken adversary.  “Down and out,” he murmured.

Duprat, meantime, was working over the prisoner, rubbing his wrists, loosening his shirt and collar.

“Ammonia—­quick,” he said to his assistant, and a moment later, with the strong fumes at his nostrils, Groener stirred and opened his eyes weakly.

Just then a sound was heard in the distance as of a galloping horse.  The white-faced prisoner started and listened eagerly.  Nearer and nearer came the rapid hoof beats, echoing through the deserted streets.  Now the horse was crossing the little bridge near the hospital, now he was coming madly down the Boulevard du Palais.  Who was this rider dashing so furiously through the peaceful night?

As they all turned wondering, the horse drew up suddenly before the palace and a voice was heard in sharp command.  Then the great iron gates swung open and the horse stamped in.