“A fox on the trail of a lion!” harshly replied the young man.  “He who aroused so many hopes is, after all, nothing more than an impostor—­Leon Maria Hervagault, the son of a tailor at St. Leu.  The true dauphin, the son of Louis XVI., really died a natural death, after he had served a three years’ apprenticeship as shoemaker under Master Simho; and in order that a later generation might not be able to secure his ashes, he was buried in quick-lime in the Chapel of St. Margarethe.”

“They were not so scrupulous concerning monsieur,"[1] observed the old man, restlessly pacing the floor.  “I received a letter from my agent to-day; he writes that monsieur was secretly shot at Dillingen.”

[Footnote 1:  Count de Provence, afterward Louis XVIII.]

“What!  He, too?  Then—­”

“Hush!” cautiously interposed the elder man.  “That child might not be asleep.”

“And if she were awake, what could she understand?”

“True; but we must be cautious.”  He ceased his restless promenade, and came close to the young man’s side.  “Everything is at an end here,” he added in a lower tone.  “We must remove our treasure to a more secure hiding-place—­this very night, indeed, if it be possible.”

“It is possible,” assented his companion.  “The plan of flight was arranged two days ago.  The most difficult part was to get away from this house.  It is watched day and night.  Chance, however, has come to our aid.”

“I understand,” nodded the old gentleman, glancing significantly toward the bed.

“The most serious question now is, where shall we find a secure hiding-place?  Even England is not safe.  The bullets of Dillingen can reach to that country!  Indeed, wherever there are police no secret is safe.”

“I ’ll tell you something,” after a moment’s deliberation observed the elder man.  “I know of a country in Europe where order prevails, and where there are no police spies; and, what is more, the place of which I speak is beyond the range of a gunshot!”

“I confess I am curious to learn where such a place may be found,” with an incredulous smile returned the young man.

“Fetch the map, and I will point it out to you.  Afterward we will arrange your route toward it.”  The two men spread a large map of Europe on the table, and, bending over it, were soon deeply absorbed in examining it, the while exchanging whispered remarks.

At last they seemed to have agreed on something.  The map was folded up and thrust into the younger man’s pocket.

“I shall start at once,” he said, with an air of decision.

“That is well,” with evident satisfaction assented his companion.  “And take with you also the steel casket.  In it are all the necessary documents, some articles of clothing on which the mother with her own hands embroidered the well-known symbol, and a million of francs in English bank-notes.  These, however, you will not use unless compelled to do so by extreme necessity.  You will receive annually a sufficient sum from a certain banking-house which will supply all your wants.  Have our two trusty friends been apprised?”