Cambray repressed the sigh of relief which would have lightened his heart, and forced himself to say indifferently: 

“Neither the young man nor the child concern me.  It is his own family affair, in which I never meddled.”

“That is a move I cannot allow, M. Cambray!” sharply responded the marquis.  “There are proofs that you are perfectly familiar with his affairs.”

Again Cambray smiled scornfully.

“You have evidently searched my lodgings.”

“We have done our duty, monsieur.  We even tore up the floors, broke your furniture and ornaments,—­for which we apologize,—­and found nothing suspicious.  Notwithstanding this, however, we know very well that you received a letter yesterday warning you of approaching danger.  We know very well that you and your friend traced out the route of his flight; we have a witness who listened to your plans, and who fitted together the scraps of the torn letter of warning, and read it.”

“And who may this witness be?” queried Cambray.

“The child you picked up in the street.”

“What!” ejaculated Cambray, incredulously.  “The little girl who sat shivering in the snow?”

“Yes; she is our most skilful detective, and has entrapped more than one conspirator,” triumphantly interrupted De Fervlans.

“Then”—­and M. Cambray brought his hands together in a vehement gesture—­“what I have believed a myth is really true.  The police authorities really employ a number of beautiful women, handsome young men, and clever children to spy out and entrap suspected persons?  ‘Cythera’s Brigade’ really exists?”

“You had the pleasure of meeting that celebrated brigade this morning,” replied De Fervlans.

“And those grateful men and women, who gathered about me with tearful eyes and sympathetic words—­”

“Were members of Cythera’s Brigade,” supplemented the marquis.

“And the mistress of the house—­the beautiful woman who fainted at sight of her child?”

“Is the fair Cythera’s substitute!  She taught her little daughter the part she played so successfully.”

With sudden fury M. Cambray tore from his breast the ivory locket containing the little Amelie’s portrait, and was about to fling it on the floor and trample upon it.  On second thought, he restrained himself, returned the locket to his breast, and muttered: 

“The child is not to blame.  Those who have made her such a monster are at fault.  I will keep the miniature as a talisman for the future.”

“And now, M. Cambray,” pursued the marquis, “we want to learn what has become of your young friend.  In fact, we must know what has become of him and his charge.”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“You do know.  According to the report from our witness, he has fled to a ‘country where order prevails, and where there are no police.’  Where is this country, M. Cambray?”