urther struggle would be of no avail, and gave
in.

* * * * *

That evening, when M. Martin Rigal emerged from his private office, his
daughter Flavia was more than usually demonstrative in her tokens of
affection. "How fondly I love you, my dearest father!" said she, as
she rained kisses on his cheeks. "How good you are to me!" but on this
occasion the banker was too much preoccupied to ask his daughter the
reason for this extreme tenderness on her part.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE VEILED PORTRAIT.

The danger with which Andre was menaced was most terrible, and the
importance of the game he was playing made him feel that he had
everything to fear from the boldness and audacity of his enemies. He
knew this, and he also knew that spies dogged all his movements. What
could be wanted but a favorable opportunity to assassinate him. But even
this knowledge did not make him hesitate for an instant, and all his
caution was fully exercised, for he felt that should he perish, Sabine
would be inevitably lost. On her account he acted with a prudence which
was certainly not one of his general characteristics. He was quite aware
that he might put himself under the protection of the police, but this
he knew would be to imperil the honor of the Mussidan family. He was
sure that with time and patience he should be able to unravel the
plots of the villains who were at work. But he had not time to do so by
degrees. No, he must make a bold dash at once. The hideous sacrifice of
which Sabine was to be the victim was being hurried on, and it seemed to
him as if his very existence was being carried away by the hours as
they flitted by. He went over recent events carefully one by one, and
he strove to piece them together as a child does the portions of a
dissected map. He wanted to find out the one common interest that bound
all these plotters together--Verminet, Van Klopen, Mascarin, Hortebise,
and Martin Rigal. As he submitted all this strange combination of
persons to the test, the thought of Gaston de Gandelu came across his
mind.

"Is it not curious," thought he, "that this unhappy boy should be the
victim of the cruel band of miscreants who are trying to destroy us? It
is strange, very strange."

Suddenly he started to his feet, for a fresh idea had flashed across
his brain--a thought that was as yet but crude and undefined, but which
seemed to bear the promise of hope and deliverance. It seemed to him
that the affair of young Gand