CHAPTER XVIII.

A DANGEROUS WOMAN.

“Without a doubt,” said the chief of the secret police of Paris, taking the several drawings from the desk in front of him and examining them one by one.

They were greatly improved since that night when Nick Carter made them in the room he was occupying at Kingsgift, in Virginia.

With those original sketches as guides he had made on the way across the ocean, several finished drawings of Juno, and these were what he now exhibited to the chief. Two weeks, lacking one day, had passed since then, and Nick was in Paris.

He had already visited London and Scotland Yard, where no information was obtainable—that is, such information as he sought; but he had determined to visit every capital in Europe before he returned to the United States.

The detective was convinced—as he had been convinced all along—that Juno had a history somewhere in Europe, and that if he searched for it he would find it.

He had arrived that morning in Paris and had lost no time in presenting himself to the chief of the secret police, who was an old acquaintance. As soon as he was received in the private office of that great man, he had said:

“Chief”—we use a free translation of all that passed between them—“I have here a few drawings, made by myself, of a woman whom I wish to identify. I think it more than likely that you will know her. Will you look at them?”

“Assuredly.”

Then the detective had passed out one of the drawings, putting it face upward on the desk in front of the chief; and the latter had exclaimed at once:

“‘The Leopard!’ Of course it is ‘The Leopard.’” And then he had added as we have noted it down here. “Without a doubt.”

Nick Carter raised his brows, interrogatively.

“‘The Leopard?’” he repeated questioningly.

“Yes. That is the name by which she is best known, Carter. She had a different name for use in each one of the capitals of Europe, but ‘The Leopard’ is the one by which she is best known, and more generally recognized. I had been wondering what had become of her.”

“So you know all about her, chief?”

“All about her? No, indeed; very little about her, as a matter of fact—and a very great deal about her, too.”

“Isn’t that statement of yours rather ambiguous?”

“Yes, it is; but it comprehends precisely what I wished to say.”

“Would you mind being more direct about it?”

“I’ll be as direct as I can. What do you desire to know about her?”

“Everything.”

“Ah, my dear friend, Carter, but that is impossible.”

“Then all that you can tell me about her.”

“That is different. Yet—if you were to give me the precise line concerning which you wish information we might get at it sooner.”

“Why? What is the matter with general information concerning her?”

“There is no such thing as general information concerning her. She is not ‘general’ in any sense of the word. She is a many-sided woman. Young, you will say? Yes; but not so young as she appears to be. Beautiful? Ah, as a witch! Fascinating? She is an houri. There are no words to describe her accurately. What is the circumstance which leads you to make inquiries concerning her, my friend?”

The detective hesitated a moment; then he said:

“She is just now engaged, in company with a man whom we know on our side of the water as Bare-Faced Jimmy, in rather a large scheme. Jimmy has stolen the identity of a young Virginian who is doubtless dead—it isn’t unlikely that Jimmy murdered him and that this woman helped him do it. ‘The Leopard,’ as you call her, has married Jimmy——”

“Wait, wait, wait! Married, you say? Impossible!”

“Eh? Why impossible?”

“Because, why should she have married a criminal, when she could have had her pick of titles over here many times?”

“That is a question I cannot answer; only there is no doubt that she is married to Jimmy.”

The chief of the secret police of Paris shook his head with emphasis.

“Impossible!” he said again, with conviction.

“Why?” repeated the detective.

“Because—ah, who can give a reason for what women do, or refuse to do? Not I, although I have been studying them for years.”

“But you have a reason for such a decided opinion, chief.”

“Assuredly. Of course, Carter. There is a reason. We have it set down in our _dossier_ of her in the books; there it is a cut and dried opinion; just a practical one. Perhaps that is the answer you want to your question.”

“Perhaps it is. Let me hear it.”

“Wait. I will send for the book.”

“No. Tell me about it, and her, first. I would rather have your version of it. Later, if you will permit it I will read the _dossier_.”

“Assuredly you shall read it.”

“Now, what is that cut and dried reason? Tell me that. I have an idea that it will supply some sort of a pointer in the investigation I am making.”

“Possibly. Who knows? I have just told you that she might have had her pick of titles, here in France; or Austria; or Germany; or Italy; or even in Russia. Everybody who came in contact with her fell in love with her. She has been the ruin of a score of good men in the secret police of several countries. Two of my own men committed suicide because of her. She led them to betray their trusts, and so, dishonored them. Ah, she is a wonder, that woman! That leopard!”

“But that is not the reason you spoke about for her not marrying.”

“No, it is this. There was a Duc de Luvois—a rich man with an honored name, which he offered to bestow upon her, together with his fortune. He laid them both at her feet, and she refused them and him. It was her reply to him that is used now in the _dossier_, as the reason why she will never marry.”

“Good. What was that reply, chief?”

“The duke repeated it to a friend of his before he shot himself after her refusal. ‘She told me,’ he said to his friend, ‘that there is only one name in all the world which she will ever consent to bear, and that as there is small chance of that name ever being offered to her is not likely that she would ever marry.’ Now you have it, Carter. That is the cut and dried reason. Cannot you read between the words all that they imply?”

“Yes; I think so. Still, I would like to have your version, chief.”

“You shall, then.”

“Thank you.”

“I told you a moment ago that while we know a great deal about her, we know, in fact, a very little. When I made that remark I meant that we know absolutely nothing concerning her history before she arrived at womanhood. In other words, we know everything about her, for the past eight years—and we know absolutely nothing concerning her before that time. We do not know where she came from or what her country is. Have you got that in your mind?”

“Yes.”

“Well, now refer again to what she told the duke when he asked her to be his wife.”

“I do.”

“There can be only one explanation of that expression. It meant, if it meant anything at all, that once, before we knew anything about her, she loved a man who was the cause, directly or indirectly, of her entering upon a career that brought her to the notice of the police. It meant that the man is still alive, and that he might yet offer her his name, and that if he did so, she would accept it; and that if he failed to do so, she would never accept any other name. I know that I am a romantic Frenchman, but that is the way I read that answer she made to the Duc de Luvois.”

“Very well, chief, I accept your version.”

“Yet you say that she is married.”

“Yes; there is no doubt of it.”

“But you suggest that the man she has married is a criminal.”

“He is one.”

“Then I do not believe——”

“Wait, chief.”

“Well?”

“Suppose that the man was not always a criminal? Suppose that once upon a time he bore a splendid name, and was in line to succeed to a title? Suppose——”

The chief half started from his chair, then sank back again into its depths.

“You mean that she has married the only man she would give her liberty to—the man to whom she referred in that talk with the duke?”

“Yes.”

“And that he is now a criminal, and that you are on his track—and hers?”

“Yes, again.”

“By Jove, Carter, I cannot believe it! Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“But you are on the track of finding out?”

“Yes; if you will assist me, chief.”

“You may be sure that I will do that, Carter, to the extent of my ability; and of everything that this office can supply. Where is she now? In America?”

“Yes.”

“Look here, Carter; before you go more deeply into this affair I should tell you one thing about the woman.”

“Well?”

“Although she has been the cause of many a crime, and is responsible for the sudden taking off of many men, although she has filled a large place in our records for a long time, there is not, to-day, a thing against her for which she could be arrested, with the least chance of conviction. It has even been said of her that she has lived a spotlessly moral life, and so far as my own knowledge goes, it is the truth. But, she is none the less a dangerous woman.”

“I know. I have seen her.”

“Ah; then you do know. Why, my friend, she even tried her wiles upon me—and I nearly fell. It was chance that saved me, rather than my own good sense.”

“And you are more than half in love with her yet, chief. I could see that when you looked at her picture.”

“No; I am not in love with her; not in the least. But I am fascinated by her. And there is a difference, Carter.”