"But the man in charge of the house never left it, or so he said, and
the doors, all of them, were locked."
"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "That dear old nurse."
"The police found no trace of what might have been present if a man
had entered--I mean muddy footmarks in the house."
"No," I said; "that was pure accident. I took off my shoes when I went
in, but with no thought of anything except the noise they might make."
"And," remarked Le Moyne, "of course any footprints there were
outside had been partly worn away by the rain. None of any use were
found, and besides for days the police had tramped over every foot of
the garden."
"Not to leave you puzzled," said Merton, "and really it must have been
rather bewildering, I beg that Greville tell you the whole story."
"With pleasure," I said. "Colonel Merton and I were the burglars"; and
thereupon I related our adventure.
"No one suspected you," said the count; "but what astonishes me the
most is the concealment under a blazing fire of things as easily
burned as papers. I see now, but even after the ashes were thrown
about by you, the police refused to believe they could have been used
to safeguard papers. I should like to tell your story to our old chief
of police. He is now retired."
"I see no objection," said I.
"Better not," said Merton. "My wife's share should not, even now, be
told."
"You are right," said the countess, "quite right. But how did it occur
to you, Madame Merton, to use the ashes as you did?"
"Let me answer," said the colonel. "Any American would know how
completely ashes are non-conductors of heat. I knew of their use on
one occasion in our Civil War to hide and preserve the safe-conduct of
a spy."
"And," said I, "their protective power explains some of the so-called
miracles when, as in Japan, men walk over what seems to be a bed of
glowing red-hot coals."
"How stupid the losing side appears," said the count, "when one hears
all of both sides!"
"But," asked the countess, "how did you get the papers to London? It
seems a simple thing, but my husband will tell you that never have
there been such extreme measures taken as in this case. The emperor
was furious, and yet to the end every one was in the dark."
"You must have played your game well," said Le Moyne.
"Luck is a very good player," I said, "and we had our share."
"Ah, there was more than luck when no amount of cross-questioning
could get a word out of Madame Merton."
"My husband insists that I have never been able to make up for that
long silence."
We laughed as the count said: "One can jest over it now, but at the
time the only amusement I got out of the whole affair was when your
dummy envelop came back from London with a savage criticism of the
police by our not overpleased embassy in England. I did want to laugh,
but M. de Lhuys did not."
"And the original papers?" insisted the countess. "Paris was almost in
a state of siege."
"Yes," said her husband, "tell us."
"Well," said I, laughing, "you escorted them to Belgium when we had
that affair with Porthos."
"_I!_" exclaimed the count.
"Yes; Colonel Merton insisted on fighting in Belgium merely to enable
us to get the papers out of France."
"Indeed! One man did suspect you, but it was too late."
"But Porthos?" cried the countess. "Delightful! Is that the baron?"
"Yes," laughed the count. "My cousin is to this day known as Porthos.
But who took the papers? Not you!"
"No, D'Artagnan--I mean, Merton took them as far as Belgium, and then
Lieutenant West and I carried them to London. D'Artagnan's share was a
bad rapier-wound."
"D'Artagnan?" cried the countess. "That makes it complete."
Merton merely smiled, and the blue eyes narrowed a little as the
countess said:
"And so you are D'Artagnan. How delightful! The man of three duels.
And pray, who was my husband?"
"That high-minded gentleman, Athos," said Merton, lifting his glass
and bowing to the count.
"Gracious!" cried the countess. "What delightfully ingenious people! I
shall always call him Athos."
"It was well, colonel," said the count, "that no one suspected you.
The absence of secrecy in the duel put the police at fault. Had you
been supposed to be carrying those papers, you would never have
reached the field."
"Perhaps. One never can tell," said D'Artagnan, simply.
"Ah, well," said our host, rising, "I have long since forgiven you,
Madame Merton, and no one is now more glad than I that you helped to
prevent the recognition of the Confederacy."
"You must permit me to thank you all," said the countess; "my
curiosity may now sleep in peace. You were vastly clever folk to have
defeated our sharp police."
"Come," said the count, "you Americans will want a cigar. _On peut
etre fin, mais pas plus fin que tout le monde._"