great natural shrewdness. His mind was quick to act, and fertile in
resources. But when he found himself immured in the damp and loathsome
station-house, after the terrible scenes at the Poivriere, he
relinquished all hope.

Martial knew that Justice does not trust to appearances, and that when
she finds herself confronted by a mystery, she does not rest until she
has fathomed it.

Martial knew, only too well, that if his identity was established, the
authorities would endeavor to discover the reason of his presence at
the Poivriere. That this reason would soon be discovered, he could not
doubt, and, in that case, the crime at the Borderie, and the guilt of
the duchess, would undoubtedly be made public.

This meant the Court of Assizes, prison, a frightful scandal, dishonor,
eternal disgrace!

And the power he had wielded in former days was a positive disadvantage
to him now. His place was now filled by his political adversaries. Among
them were two personal enemies upon whom he had inflicted those terrible
wounds of vanity which are never healed. What an opportunity for revenge
this would afford them!

At the thought of this ineffaceable stain upon the great name of
Sairmeuse, which was his pride and his glory, reason almost forsook him.

"My God, inspire me," he murmured. "How shall I save the honor of the
name?"

He saw but one chance of salvation--death. They now believed him one of
the miserable wretches that haunt the suburbs of Paris; if he were dead
they would not trouble themselves about his identity.

"It is the only way!" he thought.

He was endeavoring to find some means of accomplishing his plan of
self-destruction, when he heard a bustle and confusion outside. In a few
moments the door was opened and a man was thrust into the same cell--a
man who staggered a few steps, fell heavily to the floor, and began to
snore loudly. It was only a drunken man.

But a gleam of hope illumined Martial's heart, for in the drunken man he
recognized Otto--disguised, almost unrecognizable.

It was a bold ruse and no time must be lost in profiting by it. Martial
stretched himself upon a bench, as if to sleep, in such a way that his
head was scarcely a yard from that of Otto.

"The duchess is out of danger," murmured the faithful servant.

"For to-day, perhaps. But to-morrow, through me, all will be known."

"Have you told them who you are?"

"No; all the policemen but one took me for a vagabond."

"You mus