How foolish you are,
little one!"

"All right, mon ami."

And she briefly and rapidly recited her adventures, at the end
triumphantly exhibiting the bit of iron pipe with which she had opened
communication.

His face suddenly froze with horror!

"Give it to me!"

He snatched it from her hand excitedly and held it an instant apart
from his candle.

"A thousand thunders!" he gasped, at the same time handling the thing
gingerly and looking for a place to lay it down.

"But----"

"It is a dynamite bomb!" he said, hoarsely.

"Mon Dieu!"

She turned as white as a sheet and staggered backward only to come in
contact with one of the boxes on the floor. She recoiled from this as
if she had been threatened by a snake. Mlle. Fouchette was quite
feminine. A mouse now would have scared her into convulsions.

"Where did you get this, petite?" he asked. "It is death,--a horrible
death!"

She pointed to the boxes, unable to speak.

"Dynamite bombs! cartridges! powder and ball!" he declared, as he
casually examined the nearest. "It is a real arsenal!"

"Come, Jean! Let us go!" said the girl, seizing him. "It is dangerous!
Your candle! think! Come!"

She dragged him towards the open door. "Ah! to think I beat upon the
wall with that--that----"

She shivered like a leaf.

"You are right," said he. "The candle is dangerous. I will get my
bicycle-lamp and we will investigate this mystery."

"It is no longer a mystery," she replied,--"not to me. It is the hand
of the Duke."

"It is very singular," he muttered. "Very curious."

"It is a fairy romance," said she, as they passed back through the
narrow opening to Jean's appartement.

"There is no fairy story about that dynamite,--that, at least, is both
practical and modern."

"Oh! I mean this secret passage and all that----"

"Yes; but don't you know, mon enfant, that I first thought it led
to--to your----"

"For shame! Monsieur Jean!"

"I don't know," said he, shaking his head smilingly. "Monsieur de
Beauchamp was a very handsome man."

"Yes, besides being an ardent servant of the Duc d'Orleans and an
artist collector of pictures and bric-a-brac----"

"Especially 'bric-a-brac,'" said Jean, with sarcasm.

"Anyhow, mon ami, you now know----"

"That I was unjust to you, yes; pardon me! You could know very little
of Beauchamp, since he was able to collect all of this bric-a-brac
under your nose."

Mlle. Fouchette reddened, thinking, nervously, of what