“Yes, Miss Henrietta, rely on me.  I have as much reason to curse Sarah Brandon as you have, and perhaps I hate her more.  Rely on me; for my hatred has now been watching and waiting for years, ever anxious to reach her, and to avenge my sufferings.  Yes, for long years I have been lying in wait, thirsting for vengeance, lost in darkness, but pursuing her tracks with the unwearied perseverance of the Indian.  For the purpose of finding out who she is, and who her accomplices are, whence they came, and how they have met to plot together such fearful crimes,—­for that purpose I have walked in the deepest mud, and stirred up heaps of infamy.  But I have found out all.  And yet in the whole life of Sarah Brandon,—­a life of theft and murder,—­I have till this moment not found a single fact which would bring her within the reach of the law, so cunning is her wickedness.”

His face brightened with an air of triumph; and his voice rose high as he added,—­

“But now!  This time success seemed to her so sure and so easy, that she has neglected her usual precautions.  Eager to enjoy her millions, and, in proportion, weary of playing a comedy of love with your father, she has been too eager.  And she is lost if we, on our side, are not also too eager.

“As to your father, madam, I have my reasons for feeling safe about him.  According to your mother’s marriage contract, and in consequence of a bequest of a million and a half which were left her by one of her uncles, your father’s estate is your debtor to the amount of two millions; and that sum is invested in mortgages on his estates in Anjou.  That sum he cannot touch, even if he is bankrupt.  Should he die before you, that sum remains still yours; but, if you die before him, it goes to him.  Now Sarah has sworn, in her insatiate cupidity, that she will have these two millions also.”

“Ah,” said Henrietta, “you are right!  It is Sarah’s interest that my father should live; and he will live, therefore, as long as she does not know whether I am dead or alive, in fact, as long as she does not know what has become of me.”

“And she must not know that for some time,” chimed in the old man.

Then laughing his odd, silent laugh,—­

“You ought to see the anxiety of your enemies since you have slipped out of their hands.  That woman Chevassat had, last night, come to the conclusion that you were gone, and gone forever; but this morning matters looked very differently.  Maxime de Brevan had been there, making a terrible row, and beating her (God forgive him!) because she had relaxed in her watchfulness.  The rascal!  The fellow has been spending the whole day in running from the police office to the Morgue, and back again.  Destitute as you were, and almost without clothes, what could have become of you?  I, for my part, did not show; and the Chevassats are far from suspecting that I had any thing to do with the whole affair.  Ah!  It will soon be our turn, and if you will only accept my suggestions, madam”—­