As he went out upon the pier, though, they were close upon his heels—­ walking noiselessly over the loose hay and keeping themselves hidden in the shadow of the barges and behind the piles of bales.  At the very end of the pier he stopped.  Jaune and Brown, hidden by a bale of hay, were within five feet of him.  Their hearts were beating tremendously.  There had been no tragical purpose in their minds when they started, but it certainly did look now as though they were in the thick of a tragedy.  In the crisp October moonlight the Count’s face shone deathly pale; they could see the fingers of his right hand working convulsively; they could hear his labored breathing.  Below him was the deep, black water, lapping and rippling as the swirl of the tide sucked it into the dark, slimy recesses among the piles.  In its bosom was horrible death.  The Count stepped out upon the very edge of the pier and gazed wofully down upon the swelling waters.  His dismal purpose no longer admitted of doubt.  Involuntarily the two followed him until they were close at his back.  Little as they loved him, they could not suffer him thus despairingly to leave the world.

But instead of casting himself over the edge of the pier, the Count slowly raised the hand that held the bundle, with the obvious intention of throwing the bundle and whatever was the evil secret that it contained into the river’s depths.  Quick as thought, Brown had seized the upraised arm, and Jaune had settled upon the other arm with a grip like a vise.

“No, you don’t, my boy!  Let’s see what it is before it goes overboard.  Hold fast, d’Antimoine!”

The Count struggled furiously, but hopelessly.

“It’s no use.  You may as well give in, Stumps!”

As Brown uttered this name the Count suddenly became limp.  The little bundle that he had clutched tightly through the struggle dropped from his nerveless hand, and fell open as it struck the ground.  And there, gleaming in the moonlight, a brace of razors, a stubby brush, a stout pair of shears, lay loosely in the folds of a barber’s jacket!

And this was the sorry climax to the brilliant romance of the proscribed Bonapartist, the Count Sicca-tif de Courtray!

Jaune, who was a generous-hearted young fellow, was for setting free his crestfallen rival at once, and so having done with him.  Brown took a more statesmanlike view of the situation.  “We will let him go after he has owned up to Madame Carthame what a fraud he is,” he said.  The Count winced when this sentence was pronounced, but he uttered no remonstrance.  The shock of the discovery had completely demoralized him.

It was after midnight when they reached Madame Carthame’s dwelling, and Rose herself, with her hair done up in curl papers, opened the door for them, When she recognized the three visitors and perceived that the Count was in custody, and at the same moment remembered her curl papers, on her face the gaze of astonishment and the blush of maidenly modesty contended for the right of way.