Through the Wall

THE MEMORY OF A DOG

"It's a composition of rubber," laughed Coquenil. "You slip it on over your own tooth. See?" and he put back the yellow fang.

"Extraordinary!" muttered Tignol. "Even now I hardly know you."

"Then I ought to fool the wood carver."

"Fool him? You would fool your own mother. That reminds me—" He rose as the train stopped.

"Yes, yes?" questioned M. Paul eagerly. "Tell me about my mother. Is she well? Is she worried? Did you give her all my messages? Have you a letter for me?"

Tignol smiled. "There's a devoted son! But the old lady wouldn't like you with those teeth. Eh, eh! Shades of Vidocq, what a make-up! We'd better get out! I'll tell you about my visit as we walk along."

"Where are you going?" asked the detective, as the old man led the way toward the Rue La Fontaine.

"Going to get the dog," answered Tignol.

"No, no," objected M. Paul. "I wouldn't have Cæsar see me like this. I have a room on the Rue Poussin; I'll go back there first and take off some of this."

"As you please," said Tignol, and he proceeded to give Coquenil the latest news of his mother, all good news, and a long letter from the old lady, full of love and wise counsels and prayers for her boy's safety.

"There's a woman for you!" murmured M. Paul, and the tenderness of his voice contrasted oddly with the ugliness of his disguise.

"Suppose I get the dog while you are changing?" suggested Tignol. "You know he's been clipped?"

"Poor Cæsar! Yes, get him. My room is across the street. Walk back and forth along here until I come down."

Half an hour later Coquenil reappeared almost his ordinary self, except that he wore neither mustache nor eyeglasses, and, instead of his usual neat dress he had put on the shabby black coat and the battered soft hat that he had worn in leaving the Hôtel des Étrangers.

"Ah, Cæsar! Old fellow!" he cried fondly as the dog rushed to meet him with barks of joy. "It's good to have a friend like that! Where is the man who cares so much? Or the woman either—except one?"

"There's one woman who seems to care a lot about this dog," remarked Tignol. "I mean the candle girl. Such a fuss as she made when I went to get him!"

M. Paul listened in surprise. "What did she do?"

"Do? She cried and carried on in a great way. She said something was going to happen to Cæsar; she didn't want me to take him."

"Strange!" muttered the other.

"I told her I was only taking him to you, and that you would bring him back to-night. When she had heard that she caught my two hands in hers and said I must tell you she wanted to see you very much. There's something on her mind or—or she's afraid of something."

Coquenil frowned and twisted his seal ring, then he changed it deliberately from the left hand to the right, as if with some intention.

"We'll never get to the bottom of this case," he muttered, "until we know the truth about that girl. Papa Tignol, I want you to go right back to Notre-Dame and keep an eye on her. If she is afraid of something, there's something to be afraid of, for she knows. Don't talk to her; just hang about the church until I come. Remember, we spend the night there."

"Sapristi, a night in a church!"

"It won't hurt you for once," smiled M. Paul. "There's a bed to sleep on, and a lot to talk about. You know we begin the great campaign to-morrow."

Tignol rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "The sooner the better." Then yielding to his growing curiosity: "Have you found out much?"

Coquenil's eyes twinkled. "You're dying to know what I've been doing these last five days, eh?"

"Nothing of the sort," said the old man testily. "If you want to leave me in the dark, all right, only if I'm to help in the work——"

"Of course, of course," broke in the other good-naturedly. "I was going to tell you to-night, but Bonneton will be with us, so—come, we'll stroll through the bois as far as Passy, and I'll give you the main points. Then you can take a cab."

Papa Tignol was enormously pleased at this mark of confidence, but he merely gave one of his jerky little nods and walked along solemnly beside his brilliant associate. In his loyalty for M. Paul this tough old veteran would have allowed himself to be cut into small pieces, but he would have spluttered and grumbled throughout the operation.

"Let's see," began Coquenil, as they entered the beautiful park, "I have five days to account for. Well, I spent two days in Paris and three in Brussels."

"Where the wood carver lives?"

"Exactly. I got his address from Papa Bonneton. I thought I'd look the man over in his home when he was not expecting me. And before I started I put in two days studying wood carving, watching the work and questioning the workmen until I knew more about it than an expert. I made up my mind that, when I saw this man with the long little finger, I must be able to decide whether he was a genuine wood carver—or—or something else."

"I see," admired Tignol. "Well?"

"As it turned out, I didn't find him, I haven't seen him yet. He was away on a trip when I got to Brussels, away on this trip that will bring him to Paris to-morrow, so I missed him and—it's just as well I did!"

"You got facts about him?"

"Yes, I got facts about him; not the kind of facts I expected to get, either. I saw the place where he boards, this Adolph Groener. In fact, I stopped there, and I talked to the woman who runs it, a sharp-eyed young widow with a smooth tongue; and I saw the place where he works; it's a wood-carving shop, all right, and I talked to the men there—two big strong fellows with jolly red faces, and—well—" he hesitated.

"Well?"

The detective crossed his arms and faced the old man with a grim, searching look.

"Papa Tignol," he said impressively, "they all tell a simple, straight story. His name is Adolf Groener, he does live in Brussels, he makes his living at wood carving, and the widow who runs the confounded boarding house knows all about this girl Alice."

Tignol rubbed his nose reflectively. "It was a long shot, anyway."

"What would you have done?" questioned the other sharply.

"Why," answered Tignol slowly, while his shrewd eyes twinkled, "I—I'd have cussed a little and—had a couple of drinks and—come back to Paris."

Coquenil sat silent frowning. "I wasn't much better. After that first day I was ready to drop the thing, I admit it, only I went for a walk that night—and there's a lot in walking. I wandered for hours through that nice little town of Brussels, in the crowd and then alone, and the more I thought the more I came back to the same idea, he can't be a wood carver!"

"You couldn't prove it, but you knew it," chuckled the old man.

Coquenil nodded. "So I kept on through the second day. I saw more people and asked more questions, then I saw the same people again and tried to trip them up, but I didn't get ahead an inch. Groener was a wood carver, and he stayed a wood carver."

"It began to look bad, eh?"

Coquenil stopped short and said earnestly: "Papa Tignol, when this case is over and forgotten, when this man has gone where he belongs, and I know where that is"—he brought his hand down sideways swiftly—"I shall have the lesson of this Brussels search cut on a block of stone and set in my study wall. Oh, I've learned the lesson before, but this drives it home, that the most important knowledge a detective can have is the knowledge he gets inside himself!"

Tignol had never seen M. Paul more deeply stirred. "Sacré matin!" he exclaimed. "Then you did find something?"

"Ah, but I deserve no credit for it, I ought to have failed. I weakened; I had my bag packed and was actually starting for Paris, convinced that Groener had nothing to do with the case. Think of that!"

"Yes, but you didn't start."

"It was a piece of stupid luck that saved me when I ought to have known, when I ought to have been sure. And, mark you, if I had come back believing in Groener's innocence, this crime would never have been cleared up, never."

Tignol shrugged his shoulders. "La, la, la! What a man! If you had fallen into a hole you might have broken your leg! Well, you didn't fall into the hole!"

Coquenil smiled. "You're right, I ought to be pleased, I am pleased. After all, it was a neat bit of work. You see, I was waiting in the parlor of this boarding house for the widow to bring me my bill—I had spent two days there—and I happened to glance at a photograph she had shown me when I first came, a picture of Alice and herself, taken five years ago, when Alice was twelve years old. There was no doubt about the girl, and it was a good likeness of the widow. She told me she was a great friend of Alice's mother, and the picture was taken when the mother died, just before Alice went to Paris.

"Well, as I looked at the picture now, I noticed that it had no photographer's name on it, which is unusual, and it seemed to me there was something queer about the girl's hand; I went to the window and was studying the picture with my magnifying glass when I heard the woman's step outside, so I slipped it into my pocket. Then I paid my bill and came away."

"You needed that picture," approved Tignol.

"As soon as I was outside I jumped into a cab and drove to the principal photographers in Brussels. There were three of them, and at each place I showed this picture and asked how much it would cost to copy it, and as I asked the question I watched the man's face. The first two were perfectly businesslike, but the third man gave a little start and looked at me in an odd way. I made up my mind he had seen the picture before, but I didn't get anything out of him—then. In fact, I didn't try very hard, for I had my plan.

"From here I drove straight to police headquarters and had a talk with the chief. He knew me by reputation, and a note that I brought from Pougeot helped, and—well, an hour later that photographer was ready to tell me the innermost secrets of his soul."

"Eh, eh, eh!" laughed Tignol. "And what did he tell you?"

"He told me he made this picture of Alice and the widow only six weeks ago."

"Six weeks ago!" stared the other. "But the widow told you it was taken five years ago."

"Exactly!"

"Besides, Alice wasn't in Brussels six weeks ago, was she?"

"Of course not; the picture was a fake, made from a genuine one of Alice and a lady, perhaps her mother. This photographer had blotted out the lady and printed in the widow without changing the pose. It's a simple trick in photography."

"You saw the genuine picture?"

"Of course—that is, I saw a reproduction of it which the photographer made on his own account. He suspected some crooked work, and he didn't like the man who gave him the order."

"You mean the wood carver?"

Coquenil shrugged his shoulders. "Call him a wood carver, call him what you like. He didn't go to the photographer in his wood-carver disguise, he went as a gentleman in a great hurry, and willing to pay any price for the work."

Tignol twisted the long ends of his black mustache reflectively. "He was covering his tracks in advance?"

"Evidently."

"And the smooth young widow lied?"

"Lied?" snapped the detective savagely. "I should say she did. She lied about this, and lied about the whole affair. So did the men at the shop. It was manufactured testimony, bought and paid for, and a manufactured picture."

"Then," cried Tignol excitedly, "then Groener is not a wood carver?"

"He may be a wood carver, but he's a great deal more, he—he—" Coquenil hesitated, and then, with eyes blazing and nostrils dilating, he burst out: "If I know anything about my business, he's the man who gave me that left-handed jolt under the heart, he's the man who choked your shrimp photographer, he's the man who killed Martinez!"

"Name of a green dog!" muttered Tignol. "Is that true, or—or do you only know it?"

"It's true because I know it," answered Coquenil. "See here, I'll bet you a good dinner against a box of those vile cigarettes you smoke that this man who calls himself Alice's cousin has the marks of my teeth on the calf of one of his legs—I forget which leg it is."

"Taken!" said Tignol, and then, with sudden gravity: "But if this is true, things are getting serious, eh?"

"They've been serious."

"I mean the chase is nearly over?"

M. Paul answered slowly, as if weighing his words: "This man is desperate and full of resources, I know that, but, with the precautions I have taken, I don't see how he can escape—if he goes to Bonneton's house to-morrow."

Tignol scratched his head in perplexity. "Why in thunder is he such a fool as to go there?"

"I've wondered about that myself," mused Coquenil "Perhaps he won't go, perhaps there is some extraordinary reason why he must go."

"Some reason connected with the girl?" asked the other quickly.

"Yes."

"You say he calls himself Alice's cousin. Isn't he really her cousin?"

Coquenil shook his head. "He isn't her cousin, and she isn't Alice."

"Wha-at?"

"Her name is Mary, and he is her stepfather."

The old man stared in bewilderment. "But—how the devil do you know that?"

Coquenil smiled. "I found an inscription on the back of that Brussels photograph—I mean the genuine one—it was hidden under a hinged support, and Groener must have overlooked it. That was his second great mistake."

"What was the inscription?" asked Tignol eagerly.

"It read: 'To my dear husband, Raoul, from his devoted wife Margaret and her little Mary.' You notice it says her little Mary. That one word throws a flood of light on this case. The child was not his little Mary."

"I see, I see," reflected the old man. "And Alice? Does she know that—that she isn't Alice?"

"No."

"Does she know that Groener is her stepfather, and not her cousin?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I think I know why not, but, until I'm sure, I'd rather call it a mystery. See here, we've talked too much, you must hurry back to her. Better take an auto. And remember, Papa Tignol," he added in final warning, "there is nothing so important as to guard this girl."

A few moments later, with Cæsar bounding happily at his side, M. Paul entered the quieter paths of the great park, and presently came to a thickly wooded region that has almost the air of a natural forest. Here the two romped delightedly together, and Coquenil put the dog through many of his tricks, the fine creature fairly outdoing himself in eagerness and intelligence.

"Now, old fellow," said M. Paul, "I'll sit down here and have a cigarette," and he settled himself on a rustic bench, while Cæsar stretched out comfortably at his feet. And so the one dozed as the other drifted far away in smoke-laden reverie.

What days these had been, to be sure! How tired he was! He hadn't noticed it before, but now that everything was ready, now that he had finished his preparations—yes, he was very tired.

Everything was ready! It was good to know that. He had forgotten nothing. And, if all went well, he would soon be able to answer these questions that were fretting him. Who was Groener? Why had he killed Martinez? How had he profited by the death of this unfortunate billiard player? And why did he hate Kittredge? Was it because the American loved Alice? And who was Alice, this girl whose dreams and fears changed the lives of serious men? From whichever side he studied the crime he always came back to her—Kittredge loved her, Martinez knew her, he himself had started on the case on her account. Who was Alice?

During these reflections Coquenil had been vaguely aware of gay sounds from the neighboring woods, and now a sudden burst of laughter brought him back to the consciousness of things about him.

"We're too serious, my boy," he said with an effort at lightness; "this is a bit of an outing, and we must enjoy it. Come, we'll move on!"

With the dog at his heels M. Paul turned his steps toward a beautiful cool glade, carpeted in gold and green as the sunbeams sprinkled down through the trees upon the spreading moss. Here he came into plain view of a company of ladies and gentlemen, who, having witnessed the review, had chosen this delightful spot for luncheon. They were evidently rich and fashionable people, for they had come as a coaching party on a very smart break, with four beautiful horses, and some in a flashing red-and-black automobile that was now drawn up beside the larger vehicle.

With an idle eye M. Paul observed the details of the luncheon, red-coated servants emptying bounteous hampers and passing tempting food from group to group, others opening bottles of champagne, with popping corks, and filling bubbling glasses, while the men of the party passed back and forth from break to automobile with jests and gay words, or strolled under the trees enjoying post-prandial cigars.

Altogether it was a pleasing picture, and Coquenil's interest was heightened when he overheard a passing couple say that these were the guests of no less a person than the Duke of Montreuil, whose lavish entertainments were the talk of Paris. There he was, on the break, this favorite of fortune! What a brilliant figure of a man! Famous as a sportsman, enormously rich, popular in society, at the head of vast industrial enterprises, and known to have almost controlling power in affairs of state!

"Never mind, old sport, it takes all kinds of people to make up the world. Now then, jump!"

So they went on, playing together, master and dog, and were passing around through the woods on the far side of the coaching party, when, suddenly, Cæsar ceased his romping and began to nose the ground excitedly. Then, running to his master, he stood with eager eyes, as if urging some pursuit.

The detective observed the dog in surprise. Was this some foolish whim to follow a squirrel or a rabbit? It wasn't like Cæsar.

"Come, come," he reasoned with friendly chiding, "don't be a baby."

Cæsar growled in vigorous protest, and darting away, began circling the ground before him, back and forth, in widening curves, as Coquenil had taught him.

"Have you found something—sure?"

The animal barked joyously.

M. Paul was puzzled. Evidently there was a scent here, but what scent? He had made no experiments with Cæsar since the night of the crime, when the dog had taken the scent of the pistol and found the alleyway footprints. But that was ten days ago; the dog could not still be on that same scent. Impossible! Yet he was on some scent, and very eagerly. Coquenil had never seen him more impatient for permission to be off. Could a dog remember a scent for ten days?

"After all, what harm can it do?" reflected the detective, becoming interested in his turn. Then, deciding quickly, he gave the word, "Cherche!" and instantly the dog was away.

"He means business," muttered M. Paul, hurrying after him.

On through the woods went Cæsar, nose down, tail rigid, following the scent, moving carefully among the trees, and once or twice losing the trail, but quickly finding it again, and, presently, as he reached more open ground, running ahead swiftly, straight toward the coaching party.

In a flash Coquenil realized the danger and called loudly to the dog, but the distance was too great, and his voice was drowned by the cries of ladies on the break, who, seeing the bounding animal, screamed their fright. And no wonder, for this powerful, close-clipped creature, in his sudden rush looked like some formidable beast of prey; even the men started up in alarm.

"Cæsar!" shouted M. Paul, but it was too late. The dog was flying full at the break, eyes fixed, body tense; now he was gathering strength to spring, and now, with a splendid effort, he was actually hurling himself through the air, when among the confused figures on the coach a man leaned forward suddenly, and something flashed in his hand. There was a feather of smoke, a sharp report, and then, with a stab of pain, Coquenil saw Cæsar fall back to the ground and lie still.

"My dog, my dog!" he cried, and coming up to the stricken creature, he knelt beside him with ashen face.

One glance showed there was nothing to be done, the bullet had crashed into the broad breast in front of the left shoulder and—it was all over with Cæsar.

"My friend, my dear old friend!" murmured M. Paul in broken tones, and he took the poor head in his arms. At the master's voice Cæsar opened his beautiful eyes weakly, in a last pitiful appeal, then the lids closed.

"You cowards!" flung out the heartsick man. "You have killed my dog!"

"It was your own fault," said one of the gentlemen coldly, "you had no business to leave a dangerous animal like that at liberty."

THE WOOD CARVER

A detective, like an actor or a soldier, must go on fighting and playing his part, regardless of personal feelings. Sorrow brings him no reprieve from duty, so the next morning after the last sad offices for poor Cæsar, Coquenil faced the emergency before him with steady nerve and calm resolution. There was an assassin to be brought to justice and the time for action had come. This was, perhaps, the most momentous day of his whole career.

Up to the very hour of luncheon M. Paul doubted whether the wood carver would keep his appointment at the Bonnetons'. Why should he take such a risk? Why walk deliberately into a trap that he must suspect? It was true, Coquenil remembered with chagrin, that this man, if he really was the man, had once before walked into a trap (there on the Champs Elysées) and had then walked calmly out again; but this time the detective promised himself things should happen differently. His precautions were taken, and if Groener came within his clutches to-day, he would have a lively time getting out of them. There was a score to be settled between them, a heavy score, and—let the wood carver beware!

The wood carver kept his appointment. More than that, he seemed in excellent spirits, and as he sat down to Mother Bonneton's modest luncheon he nodded good-naturedly to Matthieu, the substitute watchman, whom the sacristan introduced, not too awkwardly, then he fell to eating with a hearty appetite and without any sign of embarrassment or suspicion.

"It's a strong game he's playing," reflected the detective, "but he's going to lose."

The wood carver appeared to be a man approaching forty, of medium height and stocky build, the embodiment of good health and good humor. His round, florid face was free from lines, his gray eyes were clear and friendly. He had thick, brown hair, a short, yellowish mustache, and a close-cut, brownish beard. He was dressed like a superior workingman, in a flannel shirt, a rough, blue suit, oil-stained and dust-sprinkled, and he wore thick-soled boots. His hands were strong and red and not too clean, with several broken nails and calloused places. In a word, he looked the wood carver, every inch of him, and the detective was forced to admit that, if this was a disguise, it was the most admirable one he had ever seen. If this beard and hair and mustache were false, then his own make-up, the best he had ever created, was a poor thing in comparison.

During the meal Groener talked freely, speaking with a slight Belgian accent, but fluently enough. He seemed to have a naïve spirit of drollery, and he related quite amusingly an experience of his railway journey.

"You see," he laughed, showing strong white teeth, "there were two American girls in one compartment and a newly married couple in the next one, with a little glass window between. Well, the young bridegroom wanted to kiss his bride, naturally, ha, ha! It was a good chance, for they were alone, but he was afraid some one might look through the little window and see him, so he kept looking through it himself to make sure it was all right. Well, the American girls got scared seeing a man's face peeking at them like that, so one of them caught hold of a cord just above the window and pulled it down. She thought it was a curtain cord; she wanted to cover the window so the man couldn't see through. Do I make myself comprehensible, M. Matthieu?" He looked straight at Coquenil.

"Perfectly," smiled the latter.

"Well, it wasn't a curtain cord," continued the wood carver with great relish of the joke, "it was the emergency signal, which, by the regulations, must only be used in great danger, so the first thing we knew the train drew up with a terrible jerk, and there was a great shouting and opening of doors and rushing about of officials. And finally, ha, ha! they discovered that the Brussels express had been stopped, ha, ha, ha! because a bashful young fellow wanted to kiss his girl."

M. Paul marveled at the man's self-possession. Not a tone or a glance or a muscle betrayed him, he was perfectly at ease, buoyantly satisfied, one would say, with himself and all the world—in short, he suggested nothing so little as a close-tracked assassin.

In vain Coquenil tried to decide whether Groener was really unconscious of impending danger. Was he deceived by this Matthieu disguise? Or was it possible, could it be possible, that he was what he appeared to be, a simple-minded wood carver free from any wickedness or duplicity? No, no, it was marvelous acting, an extraordinary make-up, but this was his man, all right. There was the long little finger, plainly visible, the identical finger of his seventeenth-century cast. Yes, this was the enemy, the murderer, delivered into his hands through some unaccountable fortune, and now to be watched like precious prey, and presently to be taken and delivered over to justice. It seemed too good to be true, too easy, yet there was the man before him, and despite his habit of caution and his knowledge that this was no ordinary adversary, the detective thrilled as over a victory already won.

The wood carver went on to express delight at being back in Paris, where his work would keep him three or four days. Business was brisk, thank Heaven, with an extraordinary demand for old sideboards with carved panels of the Louis XV period, which they turned out by the dozen, ha, ha, ha! in the Brussels shop. He described with gusto and with evident inside knowledge how they got the worm holes in these panels by shooting fine shot into them and the old appearance by burying them in the ground. Then he told how they distributed the finished sideboards among farmhouses in various parts of Belgium and Holland and France, where they were left to be "discovered," ha, ha, ha! by rich collectors glad to pay big prices to the simple-minded farmers, working on commission, who had inherited these treasures from their ancestors.

Across the table Matthieu, with grinning yellow teeth, showed his appreciation of this trick in art catering, and presently, when the coffee was served, he made bold to ask M. Groener if there would be any chance for a man like himself in a wood-carving shop. He was strong and willing and—his present job at Notre-Dame was only for a few days. Papa Bonneton nearly choked over his demi tasse as he listened to this plea, but the wood carver took it seriously.

"I'll help you with pleasure," he said; "I'll take you around with me to several shops to-morrow."

"To-morrow, not to-day?" asked Matthieu, apparently disappointed.

"To-day," smiled Groener, "I enjoy myself. This afternoon I escort my pretty cousin to hear some music. Did you know that, Alice?" He turned gayly to the girl.

Since the meal began Alice had scarcely spoken, but had sat looking down at her plate save at certain moments when she would lift her eyes suddenly and fix them on Groener with a strange, half-frightened expression.

"You are very kind, Cousin Adolf," she answered timidly, "but—I'm not feeling well to-day."

"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a tone of concern that had just a touch of hardness in it.

The girl hesitated, and Mother Bonneton put in harshly: "I'll tell you, she's fretting about that American who was sent to prison—a good riddance it was."

"You have no right to say that," flashed Alice.

"I have a right to tell your cousin about this foolishness. I've tried my best to look after you and be a mother to you, but when a girl won't listen to reason, when she goes to a prison to see a worthless lover——"

"Stop!" cried Alice, her beautiful eyes filling with tears.

"No, no, I'll tell it all. When a girl slips away from her work at the church and goes to see a man like Paul Coquenil——"

"Paul Coquenil?" repeated the wood carver blankly.

"Have you never heard of Paul Coquenil?" smiled Matthieu, kicking Papa Bonneton warningly under the table.

Groener looked straight at the detective and answered with perfect simplicity: "No wonder you smile, M. Matthieu, but think how far away from Paris I live! Besides, I want this to be a happy day. Come, little cousin, you shall tell me all about it when we are out together. Run along now and put on your nice dress and hat. We'll start in about half an hour."

Alice rose from the table, deathly white. She tried to speak, but the words failed her; it seemed to Coquenil that her eyes met his in desperate appeal, and then, with a glance at Groener, half of submission, half of defiance, she turned and left the room.

"Now Madam Bonneton," resumed Groener cheerfully, "while the young lady gets into her finery we might have a little talk. There are a few matters—er—" He looked apologetically at the others. "You and I will meet to-morrow, M. Matthieu; I'll see what I can do for you."

"Thanks," said Matthieu, rising in response to this hint for his departure. He bowed politely, and followed by the sacristan, went out.

"Don't speak until we get downstairs," whispered Coquenil, and they descended the four flights in silence.

"Now, Bonneton," ordered the detective sharply, when they were in the lower hallway, "don't ask questions, just do what I say. I want you to go right across to Notre-Dame, and when you get to the door take your hat off and stand there for a minute or so fanning yourself. Understand?"

The simple-minded sacristan was in a daze with all this mystery, but he repeated the words resignedly: "I'm to stand at the church door and fan myself with my hat. Is that it?"

"That's it. Then Tignol, who's watching in one of these doorways, the sly old fox, will come across and join you. Tell him to be ready to move any minute now. He'd better loaf around the corner of the church until he gets a signal from me. I'll wait here. Now go on."

"But let me say—" began the other in mild protest. "No, no," broke in M. Paul impatiently, "there's no time. Listen! Some one is coming down. Go, go!"

"I'm going, M. Paul, I'm going," obeyed Bonneton, and he hurried across the few yards of pavement that separated them from the cathedral.

Meantime, the step on the stairs came nearer. It was a light, quick step, and, looking up, Coquenil saw Alice hurrying toward him, tense with some eager purpose.

"Oh, M. Matthieu!" exclaimed the girl in apparent surprise. Then going close to him she said in a low tone that quivered with emotion: "I came after you, I must speak to you, I—I know who you are."

He looked at her sharply.

"You are M. Coquenil," she whispered.

"You saw it?" he asked uneasily.

She shook her head. "I knew it."

"Ah!" with relief. "Does he know?"

The girl's hands closed convulsively while the pupils of her eyes widened and then grew small. "I'm afraid so," she murmured, and then added these singular words: "He knows everything."

M. Paul laid a soothing hand on her arm and said kindly: "Are you afraid of him?"

"Ye-es." Her voice was almost inaudible.

"Is he planning something?"

For a moment Alice hesitated, biting her red lips, then with a quick impulse, she lifted her dark eyes to Coquenil. "I must tell you, I have no one else to tell, and I am so distressed, so—so afraid." She caught his hands pleadingly in hers, and he felt that they were icy cold.

"I'll protect you, that's what I'm here for," he assured her, "but go on, speak quickly. What is he planning?"

"He's planning to take me away, away from Paris, I'm sure he is. I overheard him just now telling Mother Bonneton to pack my trunk. He says he will spend three or four days in Paris, but that may not be true, he may go at once to-night. You can't believe him or trust him, and, if he takes me away, I—I may never come back."

"He won't take you away," said M. Paul reassuring, "that is, he won't if—See here, you trust me?"

"Oh, yes."

"You'll do exactly what I tell you, exactly, without asking how or why?"

"I will," she declared.

"You're a plucky little girl," he said as he met her unflinching look. "Let me think a moment," and he turned back and forth in the hall, brows contracted, hands deep in his pockets. "I have it!" he exclaimed presently, his face brightening. "Now listen," and speaking slowly and distinctly, the detective gave Alice precise instructions, then he went over them again, point by point.

"Are you sure you understand?" he asked finally.

"Yes, I understand and I will do what you tell me," she answered firmly, "but——"

"Well?"

"It will bring trouble on you. If anyone stands in his way—" She shivered in alarm.

Coquenil smiled confidently. "Don't worry about me."

She shook her head anxiously. "You don't know, you can't understand what a"—she stopped as if searching for a word—"what a wicked man he is."

"I understand—a little," answered Coquenil gravely; "you can tell me more when we have time; we mustn't talk now, we must act."

"Yes, of course," agreed Alice, "I will obey orders; you can depend on me and"—she held out her slim hand in a grateful movement—"thank you."

For a moment he pressed the trembling fingers in a reassuring clasp, then he watched her wonderingly, as, with a brave little smile, she turned and went back up the stairs.

"She has the air of a princess, that girl," he mused, "Who is she? What is she? I ought to know in a few hours now," and moving to the wide space of the open door, the detective glanced carelessly over the Place Notre-Dame.

It was about two o'clock, and under a dazzling sun the trees and buildings of the square were outlined on the asphalt in sharp black shadows. A 'bus lumbered sleepily over the bridge with three straining horses. A big yellow-and-black automobile throbbed quietly before the hospital. Some tourists passed, mopping red faces. A beggar crouched in the shade near the entrance to the cathedral, intoning his woes. Coquenil took out his watch and proceeded to wind it slowly. At which the beggar dragged himself lazily out of his cool corner and limped across the street.

"A little charity, kind gentleman," he whined as he came nearer.

"In here, Papa Tignol," beckoned Coquenil; "there's something new. It's all right, I've fixed the doorkeeper."

And a moment later the two associates were talking earnestly near the doorkeeper's lodge.

Meantime, Alice, with new life in her heart, was putting on her best dress and hat as Groener had bidden her, and presently she joined her cousin in the salon where he sat smoking a cheap cigar and finishing his talk with Mother Bonneton.

"Ah," he said, "are you ready?" And looking at her more closely, he added: "Poor child, you've been crying. Wait!" and he motioned Mother Bonneton to leave them.

"Now," he began kindly, when the woman had gone, "sit down here and tell me what has made my little cousin unhappy."

He spoke in a pleasant, sympathetic tone, and the girl approached him as if trying to overcome an instinctive shrinking, but she did not take the offered chair, she simply stood beside it.

"It's only a little thing," she answered with an effort, "but I was afraid you might be displeased. What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes to three."

"Would you mind very much if we didn't start until five or ten minutes past three?"

"Why—er—what's the matter?"

Alice hesitated, then with pleading eyes: "I've been troubled about different things lately, so I spoke to Father Anselm yesterday and he said I might come to him to-day at a quarter to three."

"You mean for confession?"

"Yes."

"I see. How long does it take?"

"Fifteen or twenty minutes."

"Will it make you feel happier?"

"Oh, yes, much happier."

"All right," he nodded, "I'll wait."

"Thank you, Cousin Adolf," she said eagerly. "I'll hurry right back; I'll be here by ten minutes past three."

He eyed her keenly. "You needn't trouble to come back, I'll go to the church with you."

"And wait there?" she asked with a shade of disappointment.

"Yes," he answered briefly.

There was nothing more to say, and a few minutes later Alice, anxious-eyed but altogether lovely in flower-spread hat and a fleecy pink gown, entered Notre-Dame followed by the wood carver.

"Will you wait here, cousin, by my little table?" she asked sweetly.

"You seem anxious to get rid of me," he smiled.

"No, no," she protested, but her cheeks flushed; "I only thought this chair would be more comfortable."

"Any chair will do for me," he said dryly. "Where is your confessional?"

"On the other side," and she led the way down the right aisle, past various recessed chapels, past various confessional boxes, each bearing the name of the priest who officiated there. And presently as they came to a confessional box in the space near the sacristy Alice pointed to the name, "Father Anselm."

"There," she said.

"Is the priest inside?"

"Yes." And then, with a new idea: "Cousin Adolf," she whispered, "if you go along there back of the choir and down a little stairway, you will come to the treasure room. It might interest you."

He looked at her in frank amusement. "I'm interested already. I'll get along very nicely here. Now go ahead and get through with it."

The girl glanced about her with a helpless gesture, and then, sighing resignedly, she entered the confessional. Groener seated himself on one of the little chairs and leaned back with a satisfied chuckle. He was so near the confessional that he could hear a faint murmur of voices—Alice's sweet tones and then the priest's low questions.

Five minutes passed, ten minutes! Groener looked at his watch impatiently. He heard footsteps on the stone of the choir, and, glancing up, saw Matthieu polishing the carved stalls. Some ladies passed with a guide who was showing them the church. Groener rose and paced back and forth nervously. What a time the girl was taking! Then the door of the confessional box opened and a black-robed priest came out and moved solemnly away. Enfin! It was over! And with a feeling of relief Groener watched the priest as he disappeared in the passage leading to the sacristy.

Still Alice lingered, saying a last prayer, no doubt. But the hour was advancing. Groener looked at his watch again. Twenty minutes past three! She had been in that box over half an hour. It was ridiculous, unreasonable. Besides, the priest was gone; her confession was finished. She must come out.

"Alice!" he called in a low tone, standing near the penitent's curtain.

There was no answer.

Then he knocked sharply on the woodwork: "Alice, what are you doing?"

Still no answer.

Groener's face darkened, and with sudden suspicion he drew aside the curtain.

The confessional box was empty—Alice was gone!