peaking people, that the woman who was rescued with this
child was not his mother. And there are a hundred details known to the
villagers here which go to prove what we have always suspected to be the
case, namely, that Louis XVII. was rescued from the Temple by the daring
and ingenuity of a devoted few who so jealously guarded their secret
that they frustrated their own object; for they one and all must have
perished on the guillotine, or at the hands of some other assassin,
without divulging their knowledge, and in the confusion and horror of
those days the little Dauphin was lost to sight.

"There is a trinket--a locket--containing a miniature, which I am
assured is a portrait of Marie Antoinette. This locket is in the
possession of Dormer Colville, who suggests that we should refrain
from using violence to open it until this can be done in France in the
presence of suitable witnesses. A fall or some mishap has so crushed the
locket that it can only be opened by a jeweller provided with suitable
instruments. It has remained closed for nearly a quarter of a century,
but a reliable witness in whose possession it has been since he, who was
undoubtedly Louis XVII., died in his arms, remembers the portrait, and
has no doubt of its authenticity. I have told you enough to make it
clear to you that my search is at last ended. What we require now is
money to enable us to bring this King of France to his own; to bring
him, in the first place, to my humble chateau of Gemosac, where he can
lie hidden until all arrangements are made. I leave it to you, my dear
Albert, to collect this preliminary sum."

De Chantonnay folded the letter and looked at the faces surrounding the
dimly lighted table.

Mrs. St. Pierre Lawrence, who must have known the contents of the
letter, and, therefore, came provided, leaned across the table with a
discreet clink of jewellery and laid before Albert de Chantonnay a note
for a thousand francs.

"I am only an Englishwoman," she said, simply, "but I can help."

CHAPTER XII. THE SECRET OF GEMOSAC

There is no sentiment so artificial as international hatred. In olden
days it owed its existence to churchmen, and now an irresponsible press
foments that dormant antagonism. Wherever French and English individuals
are thrown together by a common endeavour, both are surprised at the
mutual esteem which soon develops into friendship. But as nations we are
no nearer than we were in the great days of