Perhaps the fairies finally felt that the odds were too great against them, and somehow led them to safety.  At any rate, through the ghastly horror of darkness and weakness and pain there presently came hope—­flickering torches in the distance, then faint voices and the presence of friends, some workingmen, occupied with drainage repairs, who produced stimulants and rough garments and showed them the way to the upper world, to the blessed sunshine.

Then it was a matter of temporary relief at the nearest pharmacy, of waiting until Pougeot, summoned by telephone, could arrive with all haste in an automobile.

An hour later M. Paul and Alice were in clean, cool beds at a private hospital near the commissary’s house, with nurses and doctors bending over them.  And on a chair beside the girl, battered and blackened, sat Esmeralda, while under the detective’s pillow was the scorched but unharmed diary of De Heidelmann-Bruck!

“Both cases serious,” was the head doctor’s grave judgment.  “The man is frightfully burned.  The girl’s injuries are not so bad, but she is suffering from shock.  We’ll know more in twenty-four hours.”  Then, turning to Pougeot:  “Oh, he insists on seeing you alone.  Only a minute mind!”

With a thrill of emotion the commissary entered the silent, darkened room where his friend lay, swathed in bandages and supported on a water bed to lessen the pain.

“It’s all right Paul,” said M. Pougeot, “I’ve just talked with the doctor.”

“Thanks, Lucien,” answered a weak voice in the white bundle.  “I’m going to pull through—­I’ve got to, but—­if anything should go wrong, I want you to have the main points.  Come nearer.”

The commissary motioned to the nurse, who withdrew.  Then he bent close to the injured man and listened intently while Coquenil, speaking with an effort and with frequent pauses, related briefly what had happened.

“God in heaven!” muttered Pougeot.  “He’ll pay for this!”

“Yes, I—­I think he’ll pay for it, but—­Lucien, do nothing until I am able to decide things with you.  Say nothing to anyone, not even to the doctor.  And don’t give our names.”

“No, no, I’ll see to that.”

“The girl mustn’t talk, tell her she—­mustn’t talk.  And—­Lucien?”

“Yes?”

“She may be delirious—­I may be delirious, I feel queer—­now.  You must—­make sure of these—­nurses.”

“Yes, Paul, I will.”

“And—­watch the girl!  Something has happened to—­her mind.  She’s forgotten or—­remembered! Get the best specialist in Paris and—­get Duprat.  Do whatever they advise—­no matter what it costs.  Everything depends on—­her.”

“I’ll do exactly as you say, old friend,” whispered the other.  Then, at a warning signal from the nurse:  “Don’t worry now.  Just rest and get well.”  He rose to go.  “Until to-morrow, Paul.”

The sick man’s reply was only a faint murmur, and Pougeot stole softly out of the room, turning at the door for an anxious glance toward the white bed.