The door was faithfully bolted, and the casket carefully placed in the secret vault; but when Percy Reed awoke in the morning he found both open, and the diamonds, worth a million, missing.

CHAPTER V.

“Mademoiselle Milan, I wish you good-evening.”

The lady bowed.  She was reclining on a divan, before a large mirror, absently turning the rings on her finger; but in her simple negligee she appeared more beautiful than ever.  The long, dark ringlets gave the oval face a look of earnestness, the fierce Italian blood glowed in her cheeks, and the flashing brilliancy of her eyes had a restlessness that was unusual.  She was evidently suffering from nervous excitement; but there was a fascinating grace in every movement, and even in the easy indolence of her position.

“Take a seat on that sofa, by the side of my little dog.  Is he not pretty?”

“Very,” replied Dupleisis; “but I am more interested in his mistress.  We have not met for a week,—­not, in fact, since two thieves robbed Mr. Reed of a fortune.”

Dupleisis said this with pointed significance; but the lady preserved the coolest unconcern.

“The muse of the foot-lights is the most jealous of mistresses.”

“True,” replied Dupleisis; “but in this case she has had rivals.”

“I choose to amuse myself with a crowd, who eat my suppers and make me laugh.”

“And among the jesters you number the Minister of War and Chief of Police.”

“I may need their aid.”

“Mademoiselle Milan, you do need their aid; but, with all your charming courtesies, you have not secured it.”

“M.  Dupleisis chooses to speak in enigmas.  I am obtuse.”

“At our last most agreeable tete-a-tete, you were pleased to feel interested in my somewhat sluggish history.  Would you pardon a few inquiries concerning yours?”

“M.  Dupleisis, I am at your service.”

“Two months since, you resided in the Rue de Luxembourg, Paris.”

“This is an assertion.  I expected an inquiry.”

Dupleisis took from a pocket-book a half-sheet of thin, closely-written letter-paper, and spread it out on the table before him.

“It was about two months ago that this document was blown from your window.  Am I right, Mademoiselle Milan?”

“It was blown from my writing-desk into the street.”

“I knew I was right; for ’twas I that picked it up.  It is a letter, written in Rio de Janeiro, and contains the details of a plot to rob one of the wealthiest diamond-dealers in this city.  You may think my interest singular, mademoiselle; but the merchant deals with every large jewelry-house in Paris.  Their loss by a felony of this magnitude would be immense.”

Mademoiselle Milan listened with an air of indifference that was absolutely freezing.

“You may think it singular, also, that when, shortly afterward, you started for Bordeaux, I went by the same train; and that when you concluded to prolong your journey to Brazil by the French packet, via Lisbon, it was I who assisted with your luggage.”