had not been to the house before. His previous interviews with the banker had taken place at the latter's office, in Broad Street. He had no time now, however, to observe the luxury of his surroundings. Mr. Hodgman hurried him at once to the library, and in a few moments Mr. Stapleton had joined them.
He greeted Duvall with a nervous handshake, and thanked him for his prompt coming. He was clearly laboring under an intense mental strain.
"Mr. Hodgman has explained my reasons for sending for you, Mr. Duvall?" he inquired, sinking into a great leather-covered chair.
"Yes." Duvall nodded.
"Then you can appreciate my feelings." He sat in silence for several moments, looking gloomily at the floor.
"Perfectly."
"The devils! I wouldn't care if they were to steal my property--money, securities, anything like that. I can fight them--on that basis. But my child! Don't you see why your coming was of the utmost importance to me? I don't dare move against these rascals openly. If I do, they will threaten to retaliate by injuring my boy, and I am powerless. Whatever I do, must be done secretly. No one must know that you are in my employ. No one must know your object in going to Paris. You see that?"
"Most certainly. These fellows cannot hold you responsible for any moves the police authorities of Paris may make; over them you of course have no control. But if you make any efforts on your own account, any independent efforts, to recover your boy, they must by all means be made in secret."
"Exactly. You understand, then, what you are to do?"
"Yes. But first I must ask you, Mr. Stapleton, to give me some account of the affair. Mr.
Hodgman has told me only that your son has been kidnapped. No doubt you have learned by this time how the thing was done."
"What I have learned, Mr. Duvall, convinces me of the importance of being on the ground at once. The affair, as cabled to me by my wife, is preposterous--absurd!" He again gazed at the floor in gloomy preoccupation.
"How so?" the detective inquired.
"I will tell you. My boy, who, as you know, is six years old, has been in the habit of driving, each morning, accompanied by his nurse, from my house in the Avenue Kleber, to the Bois de Boulogne. On arriving in the Bois, it has been their habit to leave the automobile in which they came, and spend an hour or more walking and playing on the grass. I have insisted on this, because the boy needs exercise, and he cannot get it driving about in a motor car."
"During this hour what becomes of Ae car?" asked Duvall.
"Our orders have been, of course, for the chauffeur to wait, within sight and call. I believe he has done so."
"Thank you. Go ahead."
"On Wednesday the nurse took Jack--the boy's name is Jack--to the Bois as usuaL She played about with him on the grass for probably an hour. Then she sat down to rest. Jack was standing near her, playing with a rubber ball. She says--and, gentlemen, my wife cables me that she solemnly swears to the truth of her statements --that she turned away for a moment to observe passing vehicles in the road--turned back again to the child--and found that he was gone."
"Gone--but how?"
"How? That's the question. Here is this woman, sitting on the grass, with the child, a hundred yards from the road, in the middle of a large field of grass--a lawn. No one is within sight. The nearest person, it appears from her testimony, is the chauffeur, three hundred feet away, in the road. The woman turns her head for a moment, looks about--and the boy is gone. That is the story she tells, and which my wife has cabled to me. Do you wonder that I call it preposterous?"
"Hardly," remarked Duvall, with a grim smile. "The boy could not have vanished into thin air. The woman must be lying."
"That, Mr. Duvall, is what I cannot understand. I cannot believe that the woman is lying. My wife cannot believe it. She has been in our employ ever since the boy was born, and is devoted to him. Mrs. Stapleton cables that she is completely prostrated."
"But, Mr. Stapleton, you can hardly believe such a story! How could the child have been stolen, if her story is true? It is, as you say, preposterous."
"I do not say that the story is true, Mr. Duvall. I say that I do not think that Mary is lying. She is telling what she believes to be the truth. She turned her head for a moment--the boy was gone. That is what she says, and I believe her. The question is--how is it possible?"
"It isn't," Hodgman grunted.
"Everything is possible, Hodgman," said the banker, reprovingly. "The best proof of that, in this case, is that it has happened. What means were used, I cannot imagine; but the apparently impossible has happened. The boy is gone!"
"Is the nurse a young woman?" the detective inquired.
"About thirty, I should say."
"An American?"
"Yes. Of Irish parentage. Her name is Lanahan--Mary Lanahan."
"A New Yorker?"
"She comes from Paterson, New Jersey. Her people live there."
"Are there any other details--any other points of interest?"
"None, so far as I know. What I have told you, is what has been cabled to me by Mrs. Stapleton. She is naturally in a more or less hysterical condition. Nothing can be accomplished here. I want you to leave by today's steamer. I myself, I regret to say, cannot go until Saturday." He passed his hand nervously across his forehead. "Only matters of the most vital importance could keep me here at such a time, Mr. Duvall; but, unfortunately, such matters confront me now."
"Have you any reason to believe, Mr. Stapleton," Duvall inquired, "that the kidnapping is the act of persons from this side of the water? Have any such attempts been made in the past?"
Mr. Stapleton remained silent for sometime, buried in thought. Presently he spoke. "I am a rich man, Mr. Duvall---a very rich man. Men in my position are constantly in receipt of letters of a threatening nature. I have received many such letters, in the past."
"Was the matter of the child mentioned in any of them? Were threats made involving him?"
"There was one such letter."
"When did you receive it?"
"Last fall--perhaps six months ago."
"Have you the letter now?"
"Yes."
"May I see it?"
The banker rose, went to a heavy rosewood desk at one side of the room, drew open one of its drawers, and removed a steel despatch box. He opened it with a slender key and took out a package of letters. From these, after some hesitation, he selected one and silently handed it to Duvall.
The detective examined the letter carefully. It was enclosed in a cheap white envelope, such as are sold at all post offices, having the stamp printed on it. The letter itself was roughly printed in ink on a sheet of ruled paper evidently torn from an ordinary five-cent pad. It said:
"We demand fifty thousand dollars, to be
