ones to
the girl:

"Come, Mademoiselle, we will leave this place."

Suiting the word to the action, he offered his arm to Henriette and
started to go. With a fury restrained only by conventional usages, de
Praille was across their path and barred the way with his wand.

"This is my house," he said hoarsely, "and I will not permit this
insult!" As he spoke, the chimes sounded midnight. "Do you hear? After
twelve o'clock, no one ever leaves Bel-Air!"

For answer de Vaudrey dashed aside the extended wand, escorted the
kidnapped girl to the foot of the staircase. De Praille was upon them
again. This time he drew his sword. Fascinated, the courtiers and
their women companions watched the outcome.

Gently shielding Henriette behind him, de Vaudrey drew. Stroke and
counterstroke and parry of rapiers and lightning-like motion glinted
in the air. Henriette was the affrighted center of the fashionable
group that, according to the custom of that time, awaited the issue of
the duel without intervening.

Glory be! her protector was parrying the Marquis' wild thrusts while
he himself bided an opening. It came with a suddenness as dramatic as
the duel itself. A lunge of the villain had left his own side exposed.
De Vaudrey sidestepped and as he did so plunged his rapier between the
ribs of the owner of Bel-Air.

The mortally stricken de Praille sank back against a marble bench. De
Vaudrey scarcely glanced at him. Taking Henriette by the hand, he
rushed with her up the staircase and out to liberty.

Before the Grand Seigneur's cronies thought to avenge their master,
they had passed the astonished servants, passed the minatory beggars
at the gates, and hailing a fiacre were on their way to Paris.

CHAPTER VI

IN THE FROCHARDS' DEN

One hundred and fifty years of outlawry had made the Frochard
clan a wolfish breed; battening on crime, thievery and beggary. The
head of the house had suffered the extreme penalty meted out to
highwaymen. The precious young hopeful, Jacques, was a chip of
the old block--possibly a shade more drunken and a shade less
enterprising.

But the real masterful figure was the Widow Frochard, his mother, a
hag whose street appearance nurses used to frighten naughty children.
Hard masculine features, disheveled locks and piercing black eyes gave
her a fearsome look enhanced by a very vigorous moustache, a huge wart
near the mouth, the ear-hoops and tobacco pipe that she sported, and
the miscel