"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 Caesar 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 Caesar 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, Caesar 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 Caesar.

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

Caesar 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 Caesar 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 Caesar, 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.

"Caesar!" 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 Caesar 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 Caesar.

"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 Caesar 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."



M. Paul did not speak or move; he was thinking bitterly of Alice's presentiment.

Then some one on the break said: "We had better move along, hadn't we, Raoul?"

"Yes," agreed another. "What a beastly bore!"

And a few moments later, with clanking harness and sounding horn, the gay party rolled away.

Coquenil sat silent by his dog.



CHAPTER XXI

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 Caesar, 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 Elysees) 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 naive 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!



CHAPTER XXII

AT THE HAIRDRESSER'S

What had happened was very simple. The confessional box from which Alice had vanished was one not in use at the moment, owing to repairs in the wall behind it. These repairs had necessitated the removal of several large stones, replaced temporarily by lengths of supporting timbers between which a person might easily pass. Coquenil, with his habit of careful observation, had remarked this fact during his night in the church, and now he had taken advantage of it to effect Alice's escape. The girl had entered the confessional in the usual way, had remained there long enough to let Groener hear her voice, and had then slipped out through the open wall into the sacristy passage beyond. And the priest was Tignol!

"I scored on him that time," chuckled Coquenil, rubbing away at the woodwork and thinking of Alice hastening to the safe place he had chosen for her.

"M. Matthieu!" called Groener. "Would you mind coming here a moment?"

"I was just going to ask you to look at these carvings," replied Matthieu, coming forward innocently.

"No, no," answered the other excitedly, "a most unfortunate thing has happened. Look at that!" and he opened the door of the confessional. "She has gone—run away!"

Matthieu stared in blank surprise. "Name of a pipe!" he muttered. "Not your cousin?"

Groener nodded with half-shut eyes in which the detective caught a flash of black rage, but only a flash. In a moment the man's face was placid and good-natured as before.

"Yes," he said quietly, "my cousin has run away. It makes me sad because—Sit down a minute, M. Matthieu, I'll tell you about it."

"We'll be more quiet in here," suggested Matthieu, indicating the sacristy.

The wood carver shook his head. "I'd sooner go outside, if you don't mind. Will you join me in a glass at the tavern?"

His companion, marveling inwardly, agreed to this, and a few moments later the two men were seated under the awning of the Three Wise Men.

"Now," began Groener, with perfect simplicity and friendliness, "I'll explain the trouble between Alice and me. I've had a hard time with that girl, M. Matthieu, a very hard time. If it wasn't for her mother, I'd have washed my hands of her long ago; but her mother was a fine woman, a noble woman. It's true she made one mistake that ruined her life and practically killed her, still——"

"What mistake was that?" inquired Matthieu with sympathy.

"Why, she married an American who was—the less we say about him the better. The point is, Alice is half American, and ever since she has been old enough to take notice, she has been crazy about American men." He leaned closer and, lowering his voice, added: "That's why I had to send her to Paris five years ago."

"You don't say!"

"She was only thirteen then, but well developed and very pretty and—M. Matthieu, she got gone on an American who was spending the winter in Brussels, a married man. I had to break it up somehow, so I sent her away. Yes, sir." He shook his head sorrowfully.

"And now it's another American, a man in prison, charged with a horrible crime. Think of that! As soon as Mother Bonneton wrote me about it, I saw I'd have to take the girl away again. I told her this morning she must pack up her things and go back to Brussels with me, and that made the trouble."

"Ah!" exclaimed Matthieu with an understanding nod. "Then she knew at luncheon that you would take her back to Brussels?"

"Of course she did. You know how she acted; she had made up her mind she wouldn't go. Only she was tricky about it. She knew I had my eye on her, so she got this priest to help her."

Now the other stared in genuine astonishment. "Why—was the priest in it?"

"Was he in it? Of course he was in it. He was the whole thing. This Father Anselm has been encouraging the girl for months, filling her up with nonsense about how it's right for a young girl to choose her own husband. Mother Bonneton told me."

"You mean that Father Anselm helped her to run away?" gasped Matthieu.

"Of course he did. You saw him come out of the confessional, didn't you?"

"I was too far away to see his face," replied the other, studying the wood carver closely. "Did you see his face?"

"Certainly I did. He passed within ten feet of me. I saw his face distinctly."

"Are you sure it was he? I don't doubt you, M. Groener, but I'm a sort of official here and this is a serious charge, so I ask if you are sure it was Father Anselm?".

"I'm absolutely sure it was Father Anselm," answered the wood carver positively. He paused a moment while the detective wondered what was the meaning of this extraordinary statement. Why was the man giving him these details about Alice, and how much of them was true? Did Groener know he was talking to Paul Coquenil? If so, he knew that Coquenil must know he was lying about Father Anselm. Then why say such a thing? What was his game?



"Have another glass?" asked the wood carver. "Or shall we go on?"

"Go on—where?"

"Oh, of course, you don't know my plan. I will tell you. You see, I must find Alice, I must try to save her from this folly, for her mother's sake. Well, I know how to find her."

He spoke so earnestly and straightforwardly that Coquenil began to think Groener had really been deceived by the Matthieu disguise. After all, why not? Tignol had been deceived by it.

"How will you find her?"

"I'll tell you as we drive along. We'll take a cab and—you won't leave me, M. Matthieu?" he said anxiously.

Coquenil tried to soften the grimness of his smile. "No, M. Groener, I won't leave you."

"Good! Now then!" He threw down some money for the drinks, then he hailed a passing carriage.

"Rue Tronchet, near the Place de la Madeleine," he directed, and as they rolled away, he added: "Stop at the nearest telegraph office."

The adventure was taking a new turn. Groener, evidently, had some definite plan which he hoped to carry out. Coquenil felt for cigarettes in his coat pocket and his hand touched the friendly barrel of a revolver. Then he glanced back and saw the big automobile, which had been waiting for hours, trailing discreetly behind with Tignol (no longer a priest) and two sturdy fellows, making four men with the chauffeur, all ready to rush up for attack or defense at the lift of his hand. There must be some miraculous interposition if this man beside him, this baby-faced wood carver, was to get away now as he did that night on the Champs Elysees.

"You'll be paying for that left-handed punch, old boy, before very long," said Coquenil to himself.

"Now," resumed Groener, as the cab turned into a quiet street out of the noisy traffic of the Rue de Rivoli, "I'll tell you how I expect to find Alice. I'm going to find her through the sister of Father Anselm."

"The sister of Father Anselm!" exclaimed the other.

"Certainly. Priests have sisters, didn't you know that? Ha, ha! She's a hairdresser on the Rue Tronchet, kind-hearted woman with children of her own. She comes to see the Bonnetons and is fond of Alice. Well, she'll know where the girl has gone, and I propose to make her tell me."

"To make her?"

"Oh, she'll want to tell me when she understands what this means to her brother. Hello! Here's the telegraph office! Just a minute."

He sprang lightly from the cab and hurried across the sidewalk. At the same moment Coquenil lifted his hand and brought it down quickly, twice, in the direction of the doorway through which Groener had passed. And a moment later Tignol was in the telegraph office writing a dispatch beside the wood carver.

"I've telegraphed the Paris agent of a big furniture dealer in Rouen," explained the latter as they drove on, "canceling an appointment for to-morrow. He was coming on especially, but I can't see him—I can't do any business until I've found Alice. She's a sweet girl, in spite of everything, and I'm very fond of her." There was a quiver of emotion in his voice.

"Are you going to the hairdresser's now?" asked Matthieu.

"Yes. Of course she may refuse to help me, but I think I can persuade her with you to back me up." He smiled meaningly.

"I? What can I do?"

"Everything, my friend. You can testify that Father Anselm planned Alice's escape, which is bad for him, as his sister will realize. I'll say to her: 'Now, my dear Madam Page'—that's her name—'you're not going to force me and my friend, M. Matthieu—he's waiting outside, in a cab—you're not going to force us to charge your reverend brother with abducting a young lady? That wouldn't be a nice story to tell the commissary of police, would it? You're too intelligent a woman, Madam Page, to allow such a thing, aren't you?' And she'll see the point mighty quick. She'll probably drive right back with us to Notre-Dame and put a little sense into her brother's shaven head. It's four o'clock now," he concluded gayly; "I'll bet you we have Alice with us for dinner by seven, and it will be a good dinner, too. Understand you dine with us, M. Matthieu."

The man's effrontery was prodigious and there was so much plausibility in his glib chatter that, in spite of himself, Coquenil kept a last lingering wonder if Groener could be telling the truth. If not, what was his motive in this elaborate fooling? He must know that his hypocrisy and deceit would presently be exposed. So what did he expect to gain by it? What could he be driving at?

"Stop at the third doorway in the Rue Tronchet," directed the wood carver as they entered the Place de la Madeleine, and pointing to a hairdresser's sign, he added: "There is her place, up one flight. Now, if you will be patient for a few minutes, I think I'll come back with good news."

As Groener stepped from the carriage, Coquenil was on the point of seizing him and stopping this farce forthwith. What would he gain by waiting? Yet, after all, what would he lose? With four trained men to guard the house there was no chance of the fellow escaping, and it was possible his visit here might reveal something. Besides, a detective has the sportsman's instinct, he likes to play his fish before landing it.

"All right," nodded M. Paul, "I'll be patient," and as the wood carver disappeared, he signaled Tignol to surround the house.

"He's trying to lose us," said the old fox, hurrying up a moment later. "There are three exits here."

"Three?"

"Don't you know this place?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's a passage from the first courtyard into a second one, and from that you can go out either into the Place de la Madeleine or the Rue de l'Arcade. I've got a man at each exit but"——he shook his head dubiously—"one man may not be enough."

"Tonnere de Dieu, it's Madam Cecile's!" cried Coquenil. Then he gave quick orders: "Put the chauffeur with one of your men in the Rue de l'Arcade, bring your other man here and we'll double him up with this driver. Listen," he said to the jehu; "you get twenty francs extra to help watch this doorway for the man who just went in. We have a warrant for his arrest. You mustn't let him get past. Understand?"

"Twenty francs," grinned the driver, a red-faced Norman with rugged shoulders; "he won't get past, you can sleep on your two ears for that."

Meantime, Tignol had returned with one of his men, who was straightway stationed in the courtyard.

"Now," went on Coquenil, "you and I will take the exit on the Place de la Madeleine. It's four to one he comes out there."

"Why is it?" grumbled Tignol.

"Never mind why," answered the other brusquely, and he walked ahead, frowning, until they reached an imposing entrance with stately palms on the white stone floor and the glimpse of an imposing stairway.

"Of course, of course," muttered M. Paul. "To think that I had forgotten it! After all, one loses some of the old tricks in two years."

"Remember that blackmail case," whispered Tignol, "when we sneaked the countess out by the Rue de l'Arcade? Eh, eh, eh, what a close shave!"

Coquenil nodded. "Here's one of the same kind." He glanced at a sober coupe from which a lady, thickly veiled, was descending, and he followed her with a shrug as she entered the house.

"To think that some of the smartest women in Paris come here!" he mused. Then to Tignol: "How about that telegram?"

The old man stroked his rough chin. "The clerk gave me a copy of it, all right, when I showed my papers. Here it is and—much good it will do us."

He handed M. Paul a telegraph blank on which was written:

DUBOIS, 20 Rue Chalgrin.

Special bivouac amateur bouillon danger must have Sahara easily Groener arms impossible.

FELIX.

"I see," nodded Coquenil; "it ought to be an easy cipher. We must look up Dubois," and he put the paper in his pocket. "Better go in now and locate this fellow. Look over the two courtyards, have a word with the doorkeepers, see if he really went into the hairdresser's; if not, find out where he did go. Tell our men at the other exits not to let a yellow dog slip past without sizing it up for Groener."

"I'll tell 'em," grinned the old man, and he slouched away.

For five minutes Coquenil waited at the Place de la Madeleine exit and it seemed a long time. Two ladies arrived in carriages and passed inside quickly with exaggerated self-possession. A couple came down the stairs smiling and separated coldly at the door. Then a man came out alone, and the detective's eyes bored into him. It wasn't Groener.

Finally, Tignol returned and reported all well at the other exits; no one had gone out who could possibly be the wood carver. Groener had not been near the hairdresser; he had gone straight through into the second courtyard, and from there he had hurried up the main stairway.

"The one that leads to Madam Cecile's?" questioned M. Paul.

"Yes, but Cecile has only two floors. There are two more above hers."

"You think he went higher up?"

"I'm sure he did, for I spoke to Cecile herself. She wouldn't dare lie to me, and she says she has seen no such man as Groener."

"Then he's in one of the upper apartments now?"

"He must be."

Coquenil turned back and forth, snapping his fingers softly. "I'm nervous, Papa Tignol," he said; "I ought not to have let him go in here, I ought to have nailed him when I had him. He's too dangerous a man to take chances with and—mille tonneres, the roof!"

Tignol shook his head. "I don't think so. He might get through one scuttle, but he'd have a devil of a time getting in at another. He has no tools."

Coquenil looked at his watch. "He's been in there fifteen minutes. I'll give him five minutes more. If he isn't out then, we'll search the whole block from roof to cellar. Papa Tignol, it will break my heart if this fellow gets away."

He laid an anxious hand on his companion's arm and stood moodily silent, then suddenly his fingers closed with a grip that made the old man wince.

"Suffering gods!" muttered the detective, "he's coming!"

As he spoke the glass door at the foot of the stairs opened and a handsome couple advanced toward them, both dressed in the height of fashion, the woman young and graceful, the man a perfect type of the dashing boulevardier.

"No, no, you're crazy," whispered Tignol.

As the couple reached the sidewalk, Coquenil himself hesitated. In the better light he could see no resemblance between the wood carver and this gentleman with his smart clothes, his glossy silk hat, and his haughty eyeglass. The wood carver's hair was yellowish brown, this man's was dark, tinged with gray; the wood carver wore a beard and mustache, this man was clean shaven—finally, the wood carver was shorter and heavier than this man.

While the detective wavered, the gentleman stepped forward courteously and opened the door of a waiting coupe. The lady caught up her silken skirts and was about to enter when Coquenil brushed against her, as if by accident, and her purse fell to the ground.

"Stupid brute!" exclaimed the gentleman angrily, as he bent over and reached for the purse with his gloved hand.

At the same moment Coquenil seized the extended wrist in such fierce and sudden attack that, before the man could think of resisting, he was held helpless with his left arm bent behind him in twisted torture.

"No nonsense, or you'll break your arm," he warned his captive as the latter made an ineffectual effort against him. "Call the others," he ordered, and Tignol blew a shrill summons. "Rip off this glove. I want to see his hand. Come, come, none of that. Open it up. No? I'll make you open it. There, I thought so," as an excruciating wrench forced the stubborn fist to yield. "Now then, off with that glove! Ah!" he cried as the bare hand came to view. "I thought so. It's too bad you couldn't hide that long little finger! Tignol, quick with the handcuffs! There, I think we have you safely landed now, M. Adolf Groener!"



The prisoner had not spoken a word; now he flashed at Coquenil a look of withering contempt that the detective long remembered, and, leaning close, he whispered: "You poor fool!"



CHAPTER XXIII

GROENER AT BAY

Two hours later (it was nearly seven) Judge Hauteville sat in his office at the Palais de Justice, hurrying through a meal that had been brought in from a restaurant.

"There," he muttered, wiping his mouth, "that will keep me going for a few hours," and he touched the bell.

"Is M. Coquenil back yet?" he asked when the clerk appeared.

"Yes, sir," replied the latter, "he's waiting."

"Good! I'll see him."

The clerk withdrew and presently ushered in the detective.

"Sit down," motioned the judge. "Coquenil, I've done a hard day's work and I'm tired, but I'm going to examine this man of yours to-night."

"I'm glad of that," said M. Paul, "I think it's important."

"Important? Humph! The morning would do just as well—however, we'll let that go. Remember, you have no standing in this case. The work has been done by Tignol, the warrant was served by Tignol, and the witnesses have been summoned by Tignol. Is that understood?"

"Of course."

"That is my official attitude," smiled Hauteville, unbending a little; "I needn't add that, between ourselves, I appreciate what you have done, and if this affair turns out as I hope it will, I shall do my best to have your services properly recognized."

Coquenil bowed.

"Now then," continued the judge, "have you got the witnesses?"

"They are all here except Father Anselm. He has been called to the bedside of a dying woman, but we have his signed statement that he had nothing to do with the girl's escape."

"Of course not, we knew that, anyway. And the girl?"

"I went for her myself. She is outside."

"And the prisoner?"

"He's in another room under guard. I thought it best he shouldn't see the witnesses."

"Quite right. He'd better not see them when he comes through the outer office. You attend to that."

"Bien!"

"Is there anything else before I send for him? Oh, the things he wore? Did you find them?"

The detective nodded. "We found that he has a room on the fifth floor, over Madam Cecile's. He keeps it by the year. He made his change there, and we found everything that he took off—the wig, the beard, and the rough clothes."

The judge rubbed his hands. "Capital! Capital! It's a great coup. We may as well begin. I want you to be present, Coquenil, at the examination."

"Ah, that's kind of you!" exclaimed M. Paul.

"Not kind at all, you'll be of great service. Get those witnesses out of sight and then bring in the man."

A few moments later the prisoner entered, walking with hands manacled, at the side of an imposing garde de Paris. He still wore his smart clothes, and was as coldly self-possessed as at the moment of his arrest. He seemed to regard both handcuffs and guard as petty details unworthy of his attention, and he eyed the judge and Coquenil with almost patronizing scrutiny.

"Sit there," said Hauteville, pointing to a chair, and the newcomer obeyed indifferently.

The clerk settled himself at his desk and prepared to write.

"What is your name?" began the judge.

"I don't care to give my name," answered the other.

"Why not?"

"That's my affair."

"Is your name Adolf Groener?"

"No."

"Are you a wood carver?"

"No."

"Have you recently been disguised as a wood carver?"

"No."

He spoke the three negatives with a listless, rather bored air.

"Groener, you are lying and I'll prove it shortly. Tell me, first, if you have money to employ a lawyer?"

"Possibly, but I wish no lawyer."

"That is not the question. You are under suspicion of having committed a crime and——"

"What crime?" asked the prisoner sharply.

"Murder," said the judge; then impressively, after a pause: "We have reason to think that you shot the billiard player, Martinez."

Both judge and detective watched the man closely as this name was spoken, but neither saw the slightest sign of emotion.

"Martinez?" echoed the prisoner indifferently. "I never heard of him."

"Ah! You'll hear enough of him before you get through," nodded Hauteville grimly. "The law requires that a prisoner have the advantage of counsel during examination. So I ask if you will provide a lawyer?"

"No," answered the accused.

"Then the court will assign a lawyer for your defense. Ask Maitre Cure to come in," he directed the clerk.

"It's quite useless," shrugged the prisoner with careless arrogance, "I will have nothing to do with Maitre Cure."

"I warn you, Groener, in your own interest, to drop this offensive tone."

"Ta, ta, ta! I'll take what tone I please. And I'll answer your questions as I please or—or not at all."

At this moment the clerk returned followed by Maitre Cure, a florid-faced, brisk-moving, bushy-haired man in tight frock coat, who suggested an opera impresario. He seemed amused when told that the prisoner rejected his services, and established himself comfortably in a corner of the room as an interested spectator.

Then the magistrate resumed sternly: "You were arrested, sir, this afternoon in the company of a woman. Do you know who she is?"

"I do. She is a lady of my acquaintance."

"A lady whom you met at Madam Cecile's?"

"Why not?"

"You met her there by appointment?"

"Ye-es."

The judge snorted incredulously. "You don't even know her name?"

"You think not?"

"Well, what is it?"

"Why should I tell you? Is she charged with murder?" was the sneering answer.

"Groener," said Hauteville sternly, "you say this woman is a person of your acquaintance. We'll see." He touched the bell, and as the door opened, "Madam Cecile," he said.

A moment later, with a breath of perfume, there swept in a large, overdressed woman of forty-five with bold, dark eyes and hair that was too red to be real. She bowed to the judge with excessive affability and sat down.

"You are Madam Cecile?"

"Yes, sir."

"You keep a maison de rendez-vous on the Place de la Madeleine?"

"Yes, sir."

"Look at this man," he pointed to the prisoner. "Have you ever seen him before?"

"I have seen him—once."

"When was that?"

"This afternoon. He called at my place and—" she hesitated.

"Tell me what happened—everything."

"He spoke to me and—he said he wanted a lady. I asked him what kind of a lady he wanted, and he said he wanted a real lady, not a fake. I told him I had a very pretty widow and he looked at her, but she wasn't chic enough. Then I told him I had something special, a young married woman, a beauty, whose husband has plenty of money only——"

"Never mind that," cut in the judge. "What then?"

"He looked her over and said she would do. He offered her five hundred francs if she would leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage. It seemed queer but we see lots of queer things, and five hundred francs is a nice sum. He paid it in advance, so I told her to go ahead and—she did."

"Do you think he knew the woman?"

"I'm sure he did not."

"He simply paid her five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"

"Exactly."

"That will do. You may go."

With a sigh of relief and a swish of her perfumed skirts, Madam Cecile left the room.

"What do you say to that, Groener?" questioned the judge.

"She's a disreputable person and her testimony has no value," answered the prisoner unconcernedly.

"Did you pay five hundred francs to the woman who left the house with you?"

"Certainly not."

"Do you still maintain that she is a lady whom you know personally?"

"I do."

Again Hauteville touched the bell. "The lady who was brought with this man," he directed.

Outside there sounded a murmur of voices and presently a young woman, handsomely dressed and closely veiled, was led in by a guard. She was almost fainting with fright.

The judge rose courteously and pointed to a chair. "Sit down, madam. Try to control yourself. I shall detain you only a minute. Now—what is your name?"

The woman sat silent, wringing her hands in distress, then she burst out: "It will disgrace me, it will ruin me."

"Not at all," assured Hauteville. "Your name will not go on the records—you need not even speak it aloud. Simply whisper it to me."

Rising in agitation the lady went to the judge's desk and spoke to him inaudibly.

"Really!" he exclaimed, eying her in surprise as she stood before him, face down, the picture of shame.

"I have only two questions to ask," he proceeded. "Look at this man and tell me if you know him," he pointed to the accused.

She shook her head and answered in a low tone: "I never saw him before this afternoon."

"You met him at Madam Cecile's?"

"Ye-es," very faintly.

"And he paid you five hundred francs to go out of the house with him?"

She nodded but did not speak.

"That was the only service you were to render, was it, for this sum of money, simply to leave the house with him and drive away in a carriage?"

"That was all."

"Thank you, madam. I hope you will learn a lesson from this experience. You may go."

Staggering, gasping for breath, clinging weakly to the guard's arm, the lady left the room.

"Now, sir, what have you to say?" demanded the judge, facing the prisoner.

"Nothing."

"You admit that the lady told the truth?"

"Ha, ha!" the other laughed harshly. "A lady would naturally tell the truth in such a predicament, wouldn't she?"

At this the judge leaned over to Coquenil and, after some low words, he spoke to the clerk who bowed and went out.

"You denied a moment ago," resumed the questioner, "that your name is Groener. Also that you were disguised this afternoon as a wood carver. Do you deny that you have a room, rented by the year, in the house where Madam Cecile has her apartment? Ah, that went home!" he exclaimed. "You thought we would overlook the little fifth-floor room, eh?"

"I know nothing about such a room," declared the other.

"I suppose you didn't go there to change your clothes before you called at Madam Cecile's?"

"Certainly not."

"Call Jules," said Hauteville to the sleepy guard standing at the door, and straightway the clerk reappeared with a large leather bag.

"Open it," directed the magistrate. "Spread the things on the table. Let the prisoner look at them. Now then, my stubborn friend, what about these garments? What about this wig and false beard?"

Groener rose wearily from his chair, walked deliberately to the table and glanced at the exposed objects without betraying the slightest interest or confusion.

"I've never seen these things before, I know nothing about them," he said.

"Name of a camel!" muttered Coquenil. "He's got his nerve with him all right!"

The judge sat silent, playing with his lead pencil, then he folded a sheet of paper and proceeded to mark it with a series of rough geometrical patterns, afterwards going over them again, shading them carefully. Finally he looked up and said quietly to the guard: "Take off his handcuffs."

The guard obeyed.

"Now take off his coat."

This was done also, the prisoner offering no resistance.

"Now his shirt," and the shirt was taken off.

"Now his boots and trousers."

All this was done, and a few moments later the accused stood in his socks and underclothing. And still he made no protest.

Here M. Paul whispered to Hauteville, who nodded in assent.

"Certainly. Take off his garters and pull up his drawers. I want his legs bare below the knees."

"It's an outrage!" cried Groener, for the first time showing feeling.

"Silence, sir!" glared the magistrate.

"You'll be bare above the knees in the morning when your measurements are taken." Then to the guard: "Do what I said."

Again the guard obeyed, and Coquenil stood by in eager watchfulness as the prisoner's lower legs were uncovered.

"Ah!" he cried in triumph, "I knew it, I was sure of it! There!" he pointed to an egg-shaped wound on the right calf, two red semicircles plainly imprinted in the white flesh. "It's the first time I ever marked a man with my teeth and—it's a jolly good thing I did."

"How about this, Groener?" questioned the judge. "Do you admit having had a struggle with Paul Coquenil one night on the street?"

"No."

"What made that mark on your leg?"

"I—I was bitten by a dog."

"It's a wonder you didn't shoot the dog," flashed the detective.

"What do you mean?" retorted the other.

Coquenil bent close, black wrath burning in his deep-set eyes, and spoke three words that came to him by lightning intuition, three simple words that, nevertheless, seemed to smite the prisoner with sudden fear: "Oh, nothing, Raoul!"

So evident was the prisoner's emotion that Hauteville turned for an explanation to the detective, who said something under his breath.

"Very strange! Very important!" reflected the magistrate. Then to the accused: "In the morning we'll have that wound studied by experts who will tell us whether it was made by a dog or a man. Now I want you to put on the things that were in that bag."

For the first time a sense of his humiliation seemed to possess the prisoner. He clinched his hands fiercely and a wave of uncontrollable anger swept over him.

"No," he cried hoarsely, "I won't do it, I'll never do it!"

Both the judge and Coquenil gave satisfied nods at this sign of a breakdown, but they rejoiced too soon, for by a marvelous effort of the will, the man recovered his self-mastery and calm.

"After all," he corrected himself, "what does it matter? I'll put the things on," and, with his old impassive air, he went to the table and, aided by the guard, quickly donned the boots and garments of the wood carver. He even smiled contemptuously as he did so.

"What a man! What a man!" thought Coquenil, watching him admiringly.

"There!" said the prisoner when the thing was done.

But the judge shook his head. "You've forgotten the beard and the wig. Suppose you help make up his face," he said to the detective.

M. Paul fell to work zealously at this task and, using an elaborate collection of paints, powders, and brushes that were in the bag, he presently had accomplished a startling change in the unresisting prisoner—he had literally transformed him into the wood carver.

"If you're not Groener now," said Coquenil, surveying his work with a satisfied smile, "I'll swear you're his twin brother. It's the best disguise I ever saw, I'll take my hat off to you on that."

"Extraordinary!" murmured the judge. "Groener, do you still deny that this disguise belongs to you?"



"I do."

"You've never worn it before?"

"Never."

"And you're not Adolf Groener?"

"Certainly not."

"You haven't a young cousin known as Alice Groener?"

"No."

During these questions the door had opened silently at a sign from the magistrate, and Alice herself had entered the room.

"Turn around!" ordered the judge sharply, and as the accused obeyed he came suddenly face to face with the girl.

At the sight of him Alice started in surprise and fear and cried out: "Oh, Cousin Adolf!"

But the prisoner remained impassive.

"Did you expect to see this man here?" the magistrate asked her.

"Oh, no," she shivered.

"No one had told you you might see him?"

"No one."

The judge turned to Coquenil. "You did not prepare her for this meeting in any way?"

"No," said M. Paul.

"What is your name?" said Hauteville to the girl.

"Alice Groener," she answered simply.

"And this man's name?"

"Adolf Groener."

"You are sure?"

"Of course, he is my cousin."

"How long have you known him?"

"Why I—I've always known him."

Quick as a flash the prisoner pulled off his wig and false beard.

"Am I your cousin now?" he asked.

"Oh!" cried the girl, staring in amazement.

"Look at me! Am I your cousin?" he demanded.

"I—I don't know," she stammered.

"Am I talking to you with your cousin's voice? Pay attention—tell me—am I?"

Alice shook her head in perplexity. "It's not my cousin's voice," she admitted.

"And it's not your cousin," declared the prisoner. Then he faced the judge. "Is it reasonable that I could have lived with this girl for years in so intimate a way and been wearing a disguise all the time? It's absurd. She has good eyes, she would have detected this wig and false beard. Did you ever suspect that your cousin wore a wig or a false beard?" he asked Alice.

"No," she replied, "I never did."

"Ah! And the voice? Did you ever hear your cousin speak with my voice?"

"No, never."

"You see," he triumphed to the magistrate. "She can't identify me as her cousin, for the excellent reason that I'm not her cousin. You can't change a man's personality by making him wear another man's clothes and false hair. I tell you I'm not Groener."

"Who are you then?" demanded the judge.

"I'm not obliged to say who I am, and you have no business to ask unless you can show that I have committed a crime, which you haven't done yet. Ask my fat friend in the corner if that isn't the law."

Maitre Cure nodded gravely in response to this appeal. "The prisoner is correct," he said.

Here Coquenil whispered to the judge.

"Certainly," nodded the latter, and, turning to Alice, who sat wondering and trembling through this agitated scene, he said: "Thank you, mademoiselle, you may go."

The girl rose and, bowing gratefully and sweetly, left the room, followed by M. Paul.

"Groener, you say that we have not yet shown you guilty of any crime. Be patient and we will overcome that objection. Where were you about midnight on the night of the 4th of July?"

"I can't say offhand," answered the other.

"Try to remember."

"Why should I?"

"You refuse? Then I will stimulate your memory," and again he touched the bell.

Coquenil entered, followed by the shrimp photographer, who was evidently much depressed.

"Do you recognize this man?" questioned Hauteville, studying the prisoner closely.

"No," came the answer with a careless shrug.

The shrimp turned to the prisoner and, at the sight of him, started forward accusingly.

"That is the man," he cried, "that is the man who choked me."

"One moment," said the magistrate. "What is your name?"

"Alexander Godin," piped the photographer.

"You live at the Hotel des Etrangers on the Rue Racine?"

"Yes, sir."

"You are engaged to a young dressmaker who has a room near yours on the sixth floor?"

"I was engaged to her," said Alexander sorrowfully, "but there's a medical student on the same floor and——"

"No matter. You were suspicious of this young person. And on the night of July 4th you attacked a man passing along the balcony. Is that correct?"

The photographer put forth his thin hands, palms upward in mild protest. "To say that I attacked him is—is a manner of speaking. The fact is he—he—" Alexander stroked his neck ruefully.

"I understand, he turned and nearly choked you. The marks of his nails are still on your neck?"

"They are, sir," murmured the shrimp.

"And you are sure this is the man?" he pointed to the accused.

"Perfectly sure. I'll swear to it."

"Good. Now stand still. Come here, Groener. Reach out your arms as if you were going to choke this young man. Don't be afraid, he won't hurt you. No, no, the other arm! I want you to put your left hand, on his neck with the nails of your thumb and fingers exactly on these marks. I said exactly. There is the thumb—right! Now the first finger—good! Now the third! And now the little finger! Don't cramp it up, reach it out. Ah!"

With breathless interest Coquenil watched the test, and, as the long little finger slowly extended to its full length, he felt a sudden mad desire to shout or leap in the pure joy of victory, for the nails of the prisoner's left hand corresponded exactly with the nail marks on the shrimp photographer's neck!



CHAPTER XXIV

THIRTY IMPORTANT WORDS

"Now, Groener," resumed the magistrate after the shrimp had withdrawn, "why were you walking along this hotel balcony on the night of July 4th?"

"I wasn't," answered the prisoner coolly.

"The photographer positively identifies you."

"He's mistaken, I wasn't there."

"Ah," smiled Hauteville, with irritating affability. "You'll need a better defense than that."

"Whatever I need I shall have," came the sharp retort.

"Have you anything to say about those finger-nail marks?"

"Nothing."

"There's a peculiarity about those marks, Groener. The little finger of the hand that made them is abnormally, extraordinarily long. Experts say that in a hundred thousand hands you will not find one with so long a little finger, perhaps not one in a million. It happens that you have such a hand and such a little finger. Strange, is it not?"

"Call it strange, if you like," shrugged the prisoner.

"Well, isn't it strange? Just think, if all the men in Paris should try to fit their fingers in those finger marks, there would be only two or three who could reach the extraordinary span of that little finger."

"Nonsense! There might be fifty, there might be five hundred."

"Even so, only one of those fifty or five hundred would be positively identified as the man who choked the photographer and that one is yourself. There is the point; we have against you the evidence of Godin who saw you that night and remembers you, and the evidence of your own hand."

So clearly was the charge made that, for the first time, the prisoner dropped his scoffing manner and listened seriously.

"Admit, for the sake of argument, that I was on the balcony," he said. "Mind, I don't admit it, but suppose I was? What of it?"

"Nothing much," replied the judge grimly; "it would simply establish a strong probability that you killed Martinez."

"How so?"

"The photographer saw you stealing toward Kittredge's room carrying a pair of boots."

"I don't admit it, but—what if I were?"

"A pair of Kittredge's boots are missing. They were worn by the murderer to throw suspicion on an innocent man. They were stolen when the pistol was stolen, and the murderer tried to return them so that they might be discovered in Kittredge's room and found to match the alleyway footprints and damn Kittredge."

"I don't know who Kittredge is, and I don't know what alleyway you refer to," put in Groener.

Hauteville ignored this bravado and proceeded: "In order to steal these boots and be able to return them the murderer must have had access to Kittredge's room. How? The simplest way was to take a room in the same hotel, on the same floor, opening on the same balcony. Which is exactly what you did! The photographer saw you go into it after you choked him. You took this room for a month, but you never went back to it after the day of the crime."

"My dear sir, all this is away from the point. Granting that I choked the photographer, which I don't grant, and that I carried a pair of boots along a balcony and rented a room which I didn't occupy, how does that connect me with the murder of—what did you say his name was?"

"Martinez," answered the judge patiently.

"Ah, Martinez! Well, why did I murder this person?" asked the prisoner facetiously. "What had I to gain by his death? Can you make that clear? Can you even prove that I was at the place where he was murdered at the critical moment? By the way, where was the gentleman murdered? If I'm to defend myself I ought to have some details of the affair."

The judge and Coquenil exchanged some whispered words. Then the magistrate said quietly: "I'll give you one detail about the murderer; he is a left-handed man."

"Yes? And am I left-handed?"

"We'll know that definitely in the morning when you undergo the Bertillon measurements. In the meantime M. Coquenil can testify that you use your left hand with wonderful skill."

"Referring, I suppose," sneered the prisoner, "to our imaginary encounter on the Champs Elysees, when M. Coquenil claims to have used his teeth on my leg."

Quick as a flash M. Paul bent toward the judge and said something in a low tone.

"Ah, yes!" exclaimed Hauteville with a start of satisfaction. Then to Groener: "How do you happen to know that this encounter took place on the Champs Elysees?"

"Why—er—he said so just now," answered the other uneasily.

"I think not. Was the Champs Elysees mentioned, Jules?" he turned to the clerk.

Jules looked back conscientiously through his notes and shook his head. "Nothing has been said about the Champs Elysees."

"I must have imagined it," muttered the prisoner.

"Very clever of you, Groener," said the judge dryly, "to imagine the exact street where the encounter took place. You couldn't have done better if you had known it."

"You see what comes of talking without the advice of counsel," remarked Maitre Cure in funereal tones.

"Rubbish!" flung back the prisoner. "This examination is of no importance, anyhow."

"Of course not, of course not," purred the magistrate. Then, abruptly, his whole manner changed.

"Groener," he said, and his voice rang sternly, "I've been patient with you so far, I've tolerated your outrageous arrogance and impertinence, partly to entrap you, as I have, and partly because I always give suspected persons a certain amount of latitude at first. Now, my friend, you've had your little fling and—it's my turn. We are coming to a part of this examination that you will not find quite so amusing. In fact you will realize before you have been twenty-four hours at the Sante that——"

"I'm not going to the Sante," interrupted Groener insolently.

Hauteville motioned to the guard. "Put the handcuffs on him."

The guard stepped forward and obeyed, handling the man none too tenderly. Whereupon the accused once more lost his fine self-control and was swept with furious anger.

"Mark my words, Judge Hauteville," he threatened fiercely, "you have ordered handcuffs put on a prisoner for the last time."

"What do you mean by that?" demanded the magistrate.



But almost instantly Groener had become calm again. "I beg your pardon," he said, "I'm a little on my nerves. I'll behave myself now, I'm ready for those things you spoke of that are not so amusing."

"That's better," approved Hauteville, but Coquenil, watching the prisoner, shook his head doubtfully. There was something in this man's mind that they did not understand.

"Groener," demanded the magistrate impressively, "do you still deny any connection with this crime or any knowledge concerning it?"

"I do," answered the accused.

"As I said before, I think you are lying, I believe you killed Martinez, but it's possible I am mistaken. I was mistaken in my first impression about Kittredge—the evidence seemed strong against him, and I should certainly have committed him for trial had it not been for the remarkable work on the case done by M. Coquenil."

"I realize that," replied Groener with a swift and evil glance at the detective, "but even M. Coquenil might make a mistake."

Back of the quiet-spoken words M. Paul felt a controlled rage and a violence of hatred that made him mutter to himself: "It's just as well this fellow is where he can't do any more harm!"

"I warned you," pursued the judge, "that we are coming to an unpleasant part of this examination. It is unpleasant because it forces a guilty person to betray himself and reveal more or less of the truth that he tries to hide."

The prisoner looked up incredulously. "You say it forces him to betray himself?"

"That's practically what it does. There may be men strong enough and self-controlled enough to resist but we haven't found such a person yet. It's true the system is quite recently devised, it hasn't been thoroughly tested, but so far we have had wonderful results and—it's just the thing for your case."

Groener was listening carefully. "Why?"

"Because, if you are guilty, we shall know it, and can go on confidently looking for certain links now missing in the chain of evidence against you. On the other hand, if you are innocent, we shall know that, too, and—if you are innocent, Groener, here is your chance to prove it."

If the prisoner's fear was stirred he did not show it, for he answered mockingly: "How convenient! I suppose you have a scales that registers innocent or guilty when the accused stands on it?"

Hauteville shook his head. "It's simpler than that. We make the accused register his own guilt or his own innocence with his own words."

"Whether he wishes to or not?"

The other nodded grimly. "Within certain limits—yes."

"How?"

The judge opened a leather portfolio and selected several sheets of paper ruled in squares. Then he took out his watch.

"On these sheets," he explained, "M. Coquenil and I have written down about a hundred words, simple, everyday words, most of them, such as 'house,' 'music,' 'tree,' 'baby,' that have no particular significance; among these words, however, we have introduced thirty that have some association with this crime, words like 'Ansonia,' 'billiards,' 'pistol.' Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I shall speak these words slowly, one by one, and when I speak a word I want you to speak another word that my word suggests. For example, if I say 'tree,' you might say 'garden,' if I say 'house,' you might say 'chair.' Of course you are free to say any word you please, but you will find yourself irresistibly drawn toward certain ones according as you are innocent or guilty.

"For instance, Martinez, the Spaniard, was widely known as a billiard player. Now, if I should say 'billiard player,' and you had no personal feeling about Martinez, you might easily, by association of ideas, say 'Spaniard'; but, if you had killed Martinez and wished to conceal your crime then, when I said 'billiard player' you would not say 'Spaniard,' but would choose some innocent word like table or chalk. That is a crude illustration, but it may give you the idea."

"And is that all?" asked Groener, in evident relief.

"No, there is also the time taken in choosing a word. If I say 'pen' or 'umbrella' it may take you three quarters of a second to answer 'ink' or 'rain,' while it may take another man whose mind acts slowly a second and a quarter or even more for his reply; each person has his or her average time for the thought process, some longer, some shorter. But that time process is always lengthened after one of the critical or emotional words, I mean if the person is guilty. Thus, if I say, 'Ansonia' to you, and you are the murderer of Martinez, it will take you one or two or three seconds longer to decide upon a safe answering word than it would have taken if you were not the murderer and spoke the first word that came to your tongue. Do you see?"

"I see," shrugged the prisoner, "but—after all, it's only an experiment, it never would carry weight in a court of law."

"Never is a long time," said the judge. "Wait ten years. We have a wonderful mental microscope here and the world will learn to use it. I use it now, and I happen to be in charge of this investigation."

Groener was silent, his fine dark eyes fixed keenly on the judge.

"Do you really think," he asked presently, while the old patronizing smile flickered about his mouth, "that if I were guilty of this crime I could not make these answers without betraying myself?"

"I'm sure you could not."

"Then if I stood the test you would believe me innocent?"

The magistrate reflected a moment. "I should be forced to believe one of two things," he said; "either that you are innocent or that you are a man of extraordinary mental power. I don't believe the latter so—yes, I should think you innocent."

"Let me understand this," laughed the prisoner; "you say over a number of words and I answer with other words. You note the exact moment when you speak your word and the exact moment when I speak mine, then you see how many seconds elapse between the two moments. Is that it?"

"That's it, only I have a watch that marks the fifths of a second. Are you willing to make the test?"

"Suppose I refuse?"

"Why should you refuse if you are innocent?"

"But if I do?"

The magistrate's face hardened. "If you refuse to-day I shall know how to force you to my will another day. Did you ever hear of the third degree, Groener?" he asked sharply.

As the judge became threatening the prisoner's good nature increased. "After all," he said carelessly, "what does it matter? Go ahead with your little game. It rather amuses me."

And, without more difficulty, the test began, Hauteville speaking the prepared words and handling the stop watch while Coquenil, sitting beside him, wrote down the answered words and the precise time intervals.

First, they established Groener's average or normal time of reply when there was no emotion or mental effort involved. The judge said "milk" and Groener at once, by association of ideas, said "cream"; the judge said "smoke," Groener replied "fire"; the judge said "early," Groener said "late"; the judge said "water," Groener answered "river"; the judge said "tobacco," Groener answered "pipe." And the intervals varied from four fifths of a second to a second and a fifth, which was taken as the prisoner's average time for the untroubled thought process.

"He's clever!" reflected Coquenil. "He's establishing a slow average."

Then began the real test, the judge going deliberately through the entire list which included thirty important words scattered among seventy unimportant ones. The thirty important words were:

1. NOTRE DAME. 16. DETECTIVE. 2. EYEHOLE. 17. BRAZIL. 3. WATCHDOG. 18. CANARY BIRD. 4. PHOTOGRAPHER. 19. ALICE. 5. GUILLOTINE. 20. RED SKY. 6. CHAMPS ELYSEES. 21. ASSASSIN. 7. FALSE BEARD. 22. BOOTS. 8. BRUSSELS. 23. MARY. 9. GIBELIN. 24. COACHING PARTY. 10. SACRISTAN. 25. JAPANESE PRINT. 11. VILLA MONTMORENCY. 26. CHARITY BAZAAR. 12. RAOUL. 27. FOOTPRINTS. 13. DREAMS. 28. MARGARET. 14. AUGER. 29. RED HAIR. 15. JIU JITSU. 30. FOURTH OF JULY.

They went through this list slowly, word by word, with everything carefully recorded, which took nearly an hour; then they turned back to the beginning and went through the list again, so that, to the hundred original words, Groener gave two sets of answering words, most of which proved to be the same, especially in the seventy unimportant words. Thus both times he answered "darkness" for "light," "tea" for "coffee," "clock" for "watch," and "handle" for "broom." There were a few exceptions as when he answered "salt" for "sugar" the first time and "sweet" for "sugar" the second time; almost always, however, his memory brought back, automatically, the same unimportant word at the second questioning that he had given at the first questioning.

It was different, however, with the important words, as Hauteville pointed out when the test was finished, in over half the cases the accused had answered different words in the two questionings.

"You made up your mind, Groener," said the judge as he glanced over the sheets, "that you would answer the critical words within your average time of reply and you have done it, but you have betrayed yourself in another way, as I knew you would. In your desire to answer quickly you repeatedly chose words that you would not have chosen if you had reflected longer; then, in going through the list a second time, you realized this and improved on your first answers by substituting more innocent words. For example, the first time you answered 'hole' when I said 'auger,' but the second time you answered 'hammer.' You said to yourself: 'Hole is not a good answer because he will think I am thinking, of those eyeholes, so I'll change it to "hammer" which, means nothing.' For the same reason when I said 'Fourth of July' you answered 'banquet' the first time and 'America' the second time, which shows that the Ansonia banquet was in your mind. And when I said 'watchdog' you answered first 'scent' and then 'tail'; when I said 'Brazil' you answered first 'ship' and then 'coffee,' when I said 'dreams' you answered first 'fear' and then 'sleep'; you made these changes with the deliberate purpose to get as far away as possible from associations with the crime."

"Not at all," contradicted Groener, "I made the changes because every word has many associations and I followed the first one that came into my head. When we went through the list a second time I did not remember or try to remember the answers I had given the first time."

"Ah, but that is just the point," insisted the magistrate, "in the seventy unimportant words you did remember and you did answer practically the same words both times, your memory only failed in the thirty important words. Besides, in spite of your will power, the test reveals emotional disturbance."

"In me?" scoffed the prisoner.

"Precisely. It is true you kept your answers to the important words within your normal tone of reply, but in at least five cases you went beyond this normal time in answering the unimportant words."

Groener shrugged his shoulders. "The words are unimportant and so are the answers."

"Do you think so? Then explain this. You were answering regularly at the rate of one answer in a second or so when suddenly you hesitated and clenched your hands and waited four and two fifths seconds before answering 'feather' to the simple word 'hat.'"

"Perhaps I was tired, perhaps I was bored."

The magistrate leaned nearer. "Yes, and perhaps you were inwardly disturbed by the shock and strain of answering the previous word quickly and unconcernedly. I didn't warn you of that danger. Do you know what the previous word was?"

"No."

"It was guillotine!"

"Ah?" said the prisoner, absolutely impassive.

"And why did you waver and wipe your brow and draw in your breath quickly and wait six and one fifth seconds before answering 'violin' when I gave you the word 'music'?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Then I'll tell you; it was because you were again deeply agitated by the previous word 'coaching party' which you had answered instantly with 'horses.'"

"I don't see anything agitating in the word 'coaching party,'" said Groener.

Hauteville measured the prisoner for a moment in grim silence, then, throwing into his voice and manner all the impressiveness of his office and his stern personality he said: "And why did you start from your seat and tremble nervously and wait nine and four fifths seconds before you were able to answer 'salad' to the word 'potato'?"

Groener stared stolidly at the judge and did not speak.

"Shall I tell you why? It was because your heart was pounding, your head throbbing, your whole mental machinery was clogged and numbed by the shock of the word before, by the terror that went through you when you answered 'worsted work' to 'Charity Bazaar.'"

The prisoner bounded to his feet with a hoarse cry: "My God, you have no right to torture me like this!" His face was deathly white, his eyes were staring.

"We've got him going now," muttered Coquenil.

"Sit down!" ordered the judge. "You can stop this examination very easily by telling the truth."

The prisoner dropped back weakly on his chair and sat with eyes closed and head fallen forward. He did not speak.

"Do you hear, Groener?" continued Hauteville. "You can save yourself a great deal of trouble by confessing your part in this crime. Look here! Answer me!"

With an effort the man straightened up and met the judge's eyes. His face was drawn as with physical pain.

"I—I feel faint," he murmured. "Could you—give me a little brandy?"

"Here," said Coquenil, producing a flask. "Let him have a drop of this."

The guard put the flask to the prisoner's lips and Groener took several swallows.

"Thanks!" he whispered.

"I told you it wouldn't be amusing," said the magistrate grimly. "Come now, it's one thing or the other, either you confess or we go ahead."

"I have nothing to confess, I know nothing about this crime—nothing."

"Then what was the matter with you just now?"

With a flash of his former insolence the prisoner answered: "Look at that clock and you'll see what was the matter. It's after ten, you've had me here for five hours and—I've had no food since noon. It doesn't make a man a murderer because he's hungry, does it?"

The plea seemed reasonable and the prisoner's distress genuine, but, somehow, Coquenil was skeptical; he himself had eaten nothing since midday, he had been too busy and absorbed, and he was none the worse for it; besides, he remembered what a hearty luncheon the wood carver had eaten and he could not quite believe in this sudden exhaustion. Several times, furthermore, he fancied he had caught Groener's eye fixed anxiously on the clock. Was it possible the fellow was trying to gain time? But why? How could that serve him? What could he be waiting for?

As the detective puzzled over this there shot through his mind an idea for a move against Groener's resistance, so simple, yet promising such dramatic effectiveness that he turned quickly to Hauteville and said: "I think it might be as well to let him have some supper."

The judge nodded in acquiescence and directed the guard to take the prisoner into the outer office and have something to eat brought in for him.

"Well," he asked when they were alone, "what is it?"

Then, for several minutes Coquenil talked earnestly, convincingly, while the magistrate listened.

"It ought not to take more than an hour or so to get the things here," concluded the detective, "and if I read the signs right, it will just about finish him."

"Possibly, possibly," reflected the judge. "Anyhow it's worth trying," and he gave the necessary orders to his clerk. "Let Tignol go," he directed. "Tell him to wake the man up, if he's in bed, and not to mind what it costs. Tell him to take an auto. Hold on, I'll speak to him myself."

The clerk waited respectfully at the door as the judge hurried out, whereupon Coquenil, lighting a cigarette, moved to the open window and stood there for a long time blowing contemplative smoke rings into the quiet summer night.



CHAPTER XXV

THE MOVING PICTURE

"Are you feeling better?" asked the judge an hour later when the accused was led back.

"Yes," answered Groener with recovered self-possession, and again the detective noticed that he glanced anxiously at the clock. It was a quarter past eleven.

"We will have the visual test now," said Hauteville; "we must go to another room. Take the prisoner to Dr. Duprat's laboratory," he directed the guard.

Passing down the wide staircase, strangely silent now, they entered a long narrow passageway leading to a remote wing of the Palais de Justice. First went the guard with Groener close beside him, then twenty paces, behind came M. Paul and the magistrate and last came the weary clerk with Maitre Cure. Their footsteps, echoed ominously along the stone floor, their shadows danced fantastically before them and behind them under gas jets that flared through the tunnel.

"I hope this goes off well," whispered the judge uneasily. "You don't think they have forgotten anything?"

"Trust Papa Tignol to obey orders," replied Coquenil. "Ah!" he started and gripped his companion's arm. "Do you remember what I told you about those alleyway footprints? About the pressure marks? Look!" and he pointed ahead excitedly. "I knew it, he has gout or rheumatism, just touches that come and go. He had it that night when he escaped from the Ansonia and he has it now. See!"

The judge observed the prisoner carefully and nodded in agreement. There was no doubt about it, as he walked Groener was limping noticeably on his left foot!

Dr. Duprat was waiting for them in his laboratory, absorbed in recording the results of his latest experiments. A kind-eyed, grave-faced man was this, who, for all his modesty, was famous over Europe as a brilliant worker in psychological criminology. Bertillon had given the world a method of identifying criminals' bodies, and now Duprat was perfecting a method of recognizing their mental states, especially any emotional disturbances connected with fear, anger or remorse.

Entering the laboratory, they found themselves in a large room, quite dark, save for an electric lantern at one end that threw a brilliant circle on a sheet stretched at the other end. The light reflected from this sheet showed the dim outlines of a tiered amphitheater before which was a long table spread with strange-looking instruments, electrical machines and special apparatus for psychological experiments. On the walls were charts and diagrams used by the doctor in his lectures.

"Everything ready?" inquired the magistrate after an exchange of greetings with Dr. Duprat.

"Everything," answered the latter. "Is this the—er—the subject?" he glanced at the prisoner.

Hauteville nodded and the doctor beckoned to the guard.

"Please bring him over here. That's right—in front of the lantern." Then he spoke gently to Groener: "Now, my friend, we are not going to do anything that will cause you the slightest pain or inconvenience. These instruments look formidable, but they are really good friends, for they help us to understand one another. Most of the trouble in this world comes because half the people do not understand the other half. Please turn sideways to the light."

For some moments he studied the prisoner in silence.

"Interesting, ve-ry interesting," murmured the doctor, his fine student's face alight. "Especially the lobe of this ear! I will leave a note about it for Bertillon himself, he mustn't miss the lobe of this ear. Please turn a little for the back of the head. Thanks! Great width! Extraordinary fullness. Now around toward the light! The eyes—ah! The brow—excellent! Yes, yes, I know about the hand," he nodded to Coquenil, "but the head is even more remarkable. I must study this head when we have time—ve-ry remarkable. Tell me, my friend, do you suffer from sudden shooting pains—here, over your eyes?"

"No," said Groener.

"No? I should have thought you might. Well, well!" he proceeded kindly, "we must have a talk one of these days. Perhaps I can make some suggestions. I see so many heads, but—not many like yours, no, no, not many like yours."

He paused and glanced toward an assistant who was busy with the lantern. The assistant looked up and nodded respectfully.

"Ah, we can begin," continued the doctor. "We must have these off," he pointed to the handcuffs. "Also the coat. Don't be alarmed! You will experience nothing unpleasant—nothing. There! Now I want the right arm bare above the elbow. No, no, it's the left arm, I remember, I want the left arm bare above the elbow."

When these directions had been carried out, Dr. Duprat pointed to a heavy wooden chair with a high back and wide arms.

"Please sit here," he went on, "and slip your left arm into this leather sleeve. It's a little tight because it has a rubber lining, but you won't mind it after a minute or two."

Groener walked to the chair and then drew back. "What are you going to do to me?" he asked.

"We are going to show you some magic lantern pictures," answered the doctor.

"Why must I sit in this chair? Why do you want my arm in that leather thing?"

"I told you, Groener," put in the judge, "that we were coming here for the visual test; it's part of your examination. Some pictures of persons and places will be thrown on that sheet and, as each one appears, I want you to say what it is. Most of the pictures are familiar to everyone."

"Yes, but the leather sleeve?" persisted the prisoner.

"The leather sleeve is like the stop watch, it records your emotions. Sit down!"

Groener hesitated and the guard pushed him toward the chair. "Wait!" he said. "I want to know how it records my emotions."

The magistrate answered with a patience that surprised M. Paul. "There is a pneumatic arrangement," he explained, "by which the pulsations of your heart and the blood pressure in your arteries are registered—automatically. Now then! I warn you if you don't sit down willingly—well, you had better sit down."

Coquenil was watching closely and, through the prisoner's half shut eyes, he caught a flash of anger, a quick clenching of the freed hands and then—then Groener sat down.

Quickly and skillfully the assistant adjusted the leather sleeve over the bared left arm and drew it close with straps.

"Not too tight," said Duprat. "You feel a sense of throbbing at first, but it is nothing. Besides, we shall take the sleeve off shortly. Now then," he turned toward the lantern.

Immediately a familiar scene appeared upon the sheet, a colored photograph of the Place de la Concorde.

"What is it?" asked the doctor pleasantly.

The prisoner was silent.

"You surely recognize this picture. Look! The obelisk and the fountain, the Tuileries gardens, the arches of the Rue de Rivoli, and the Madeleine, there at the end of the Rue Royale. Come, what is it?"

"The Place de la Concorde," answered Groener sullenly.

"Of course. You see how simple it is. Now another."

The picture changed to a view of the grand opera house and at the same moment a point of light appeared in the headpiece back of the chair. It was shaded so that the prisoner could not see it and it illumined a graduated white dial on which was a glass tube about thirty inches long, the whole resembling a barometer. Inside the tube a red column moved regularly up and down, up and down, in steady beats and Coquenil understood that this column was registering the beating of Groener's heart. Standing behind the chair, the doctor, the magistrate, and the detective could at the same time watch the pulsating column and the pictures on the sheet; but the prisoner could not see the column, he did not know it was there, he saw only the pictures.

"What is that?" asked the doctor.

Groener had evidently decided to make the best of the situation for he answered at once: "The grand opera house."