"Good! Now another! What is that?"

"The Bastille column."

"Right! And this?"

"The Champs Elysees."

"And this?"

"Notre-Dame church."

So far the beats had come uniformly about one in a second, for the man's pulse was slow; at each beat the liquid in the tube shot up six inches and then dropped six inches, but, at the view of Notre-Dame, the column rose only three inches, then dropped back and shot up seven inches.

The doctor nodded gravely while Coquenil, with breathless interest, with a, morbid fascination, watched the beating of this red column. It was like the beating of red blood.

"And this?"

As the picture changed there was a quiver in the pulsating column, a hesitation with a quick fluttering at the bottom of the stroke, then the red line shot up full nine inches.

M. Paul glanced at the sheet and saw a perfect reproduction of private room Number Six in the Ansonia. Everything was there as on the night of the crime, the delicate yellow hangings, the sofa, the table set for two. And, slowly, as they looked, two holes appeared in the wall. Then a dim shape took form upon the floor, more and more distinctly until the dissolving lens brought a man's body into clear view, a body stretched face downward in a dark red pool that grew and widened, slowly straining and wetting the polished wood.

"Groener," said the magistrate, his voice strangely formidable in the shadows, "do you recognize this room?"

"No," said the prisoner impassively, but the column was pulsing wildly.

"You have been in this room?"

"Never."

"Nor looked through these eyeholes?"

"No."

"Nor seen that man lying on the floor?"

"No."

Now the prisoner's heart was beating evenly again, somehow he had regained his self-possession.

"You are lying, Groener," accused the judge. "You remember this man perfectly. Come, we will lift him from the floor and look him in the face, full in the face. There!" He signaled the lantern operator and there leaped forth on the sheet the head of Martinez, the murdered, mutilated head with shattered eye and painted cheeks and the greenish death pallor showing underneath. A ghastly, leering cadaver in collar and necktie, dressed up and photographed at the morgue, and now flashed hideously at the prisoner out of the darkness. Yet Groener's heart pulsed on steadily with only a slight quickening, with less quickening than Coquenil felt in his own heart.

"Who is it?" demanded the judge.

"I don't know," declared the accused.

Again the picture changed.

"Who is this?"

"Napoleon Bonaparte."

"And this?"

"Prince Bismarck."

"And this?"

"Queen Victoria."

Here, suddenly, at the view of England's peaceful sovereign, Groener seemed thrown into frightful agitation, not Groener as he sat on the chair, cold and self-contained, but Groener as revealed by the unsuspected dial. Up and down in mad excitement leaped the red column with many little breaks and quiverings at the bottom of the beats and with tremendous up-shootings as if the frightened heart were trying to burst the tube with its spurting red jet.

The doctor put his mouth close to Coquenil's ear and whispered: "It's the shock showing now, the shock that he held back after the body."

Then he leaned over Groener's shoulder and asked kindly: "Do you feel your heart beating fast, my friend?"

"No," murmured the prisoner, "my—my heart is beating as usual."

"You will certainly recognize the next picture," pursued the judge. "It shows a woman and a little girl! There! Do you know these faces, Groener?"

As he spoke there appeared the fake photograph that Coquenil had found in Brussels, Alice at the age of twelve with the smooth young widow.

The prisoner shook his head. "I don't know them—I never saw them."

"Groener," warned the magistrate, "there is no use keeping up this denial, you have betrayed yourself already."

"No," cried the prisoner with a supreme rally of his will power, "I have betrayed nothing—nothing," and, once more, while the doctor marveled, his pulse steadied and strengthened and grew normal.

"What a man!" muttered Coquenil.

"We know the facts," went on Hauteville sternly, "we know why you killed Martinez and why you disguised yourself as a wood carver."

The prisoner's face lighted with a mocking smile. "If you know all that, why waste time questioning me?"

"You're a good actor, sir, but we shall strip off your mask and quiet your impudence. Look at the girl in this false picture which you had cunningly made in Brussels. Look at her! Who is she? There is the key to the mystery! There is the reason for your killing Martinez! He knew the truth about this girl."

Now the prisoner's pulse was running wild, faster and faster, but with no more violent spurtings and leapings; the red column throbbed swiftly and faintly at the bottom of the tube as if the heart were weakening.

"A hundred and sixty to the minute," whispered Duprat to the magistrate. "It is dangerous to go on."

Hauteville shrugged his shoulders.

"Martinez knew the truth," he went on, "Martinez held your secret. How had Martinez come upon it? Who was Martinez? A billiard player, a shallow fellow, vain of his conquests over silly women. The last man in Paris, one would say, to interfere with your high purposes or penetrate the barriers of wealth and power that surrounded you."

"You—you flatter me! What am I, pray, a marquis or a duke?" chaffed the other, but the trembling dial belied his gayety, and even from the side Coquenil could see that the man's face was as tense and pallid as the sheet before him.

"As I said, the key to this murder," pursued the magistrate, "is the secret that Martinez held. Without that nothing can be understood and no justice can be done. The whole aim of this investigation has been to get the secret and we have got it! Groener, you have delivered yourself into our hands, you have written this secret for us in words of terror and we have read them, we know what Martinez knew when you took his life, we know the story of the medal that he wore on his breast. Do you know the story?"

"I tell you I know nothing about this man or his medal," flung back the prisoner.

"No? Then you will be glad to hear the story. It was a medal of solid gold, awarded Martinez by the city of Paris for conspicuous bravery in saving lives at the terrible Charity Bazaar fire. You have heard of the Charity Bazaar fire, Groener?"

"Yes, I—I have heard of it."

"But perhaps you never heard the details or, if you did, you may have forgotten them. Have you forgotten the details of the Charity Bazaar fire?"

Charity Bazaar fire! Three times, with increasing emphasis, the magistrate had spoken those sinister words, yet the dial gave no sign, the red column throbbed on steadily.

"I am not interested in the subject," answered the accused.

"Ah, but you are, or you ought to be. It was such a shocking affair. Hundreds burned to death, think of that! Cowardly men trampling women and children! Our noblest families plunged into grief and bereavement! Princesses burned to death! Duchesses burned to death! Beautiful women burned to death! Rich women burned to death! Think of it, Groener, and—" he signaled the operator, "and look at it!"

As he spoke the awful tragedy began in one of those extraordinary moving pictures that the French make after a catastrophe, giving to the imitation even greater terrors than were in the genuine happening. Here before them now leaped redder and fiercer flames than ever crackled through the real Charity Bazaar; here were women and children perishing in more savage torture than the actual victims endured; here were horrors piled on horrors, exaggerated horrors, manufactured horrors, until the spectacle became unendurable, until one all but heard the screams and breathed the sickening odor of burning human flesh.

Coquenil had seen this picture in one of the boulevard theaters and, straightway, after the precious nine-second clew of the word test, he had sent Papa Tignol off for it posthaste, during the supper intermission. If the mere word "Charity Bazaar" had struck this man dumb with fear what would the thing itself do, the revolting, ghastly thing?

That was the question now, what would this hideous moving picture do to a fire-fearing assassin already on the verge of collapse? Would it break the last resistance of his overwrought nerves or would he still hold out?

Silently, intently the three men waited, bending over the dial as the test proceeded, as the fiends of torture and death swept past in lurid triumph.

The picture machine whirled on with droning buzz, the accused sat still, eyes on the sheet, the red column pulsed steadily, up and down, up and down, now a little higher, now a little quicker, but—for a minute, for two minutes—nothing decisive happened, nothing that they had hoped for; yet Coquenil felt, he knew that something was going to happen, he knew it by the agonized tension of the room, by the atmosphere of pain about them. If Groener had not spoken, he himself, in the poignancy of his own distress, must have cried out or stamped on the floor or broken something, just to end the silence.

Then, suddenly, the tension snapped, the prisoner sprang to his feet and, tearing his arm from the leather sleeve, he faced his tormentors desperately, eyes blazing, features convulsed:

"No, no, no!" he shrieked. "You dogs! You cowards!"

"Lights up," ordered Hauteville. Then to the guard: "Put the handcuffs on him."



But the prisoner would not be silenced. "What does all this prove?" he screamed in rage. "Nothing! Nothing! You make me look at disgusting, abominable pictures and—why shouldn't my heart beat? Anybody's heart would beat—if he had a heart."

The judge paid no attention to this outburst, but went on in a tone as keen and cold as a knife: "Before you go to your cell, Groener, you shall hear what we charge against you. Your wife perished in the Charity Bazaar fire. She was a very rich woman, probably an American, who had been married before and who had a daughter by her previous marriage. That daughter is the girl you call Alice. Her true name is Mary. She was in the fire with her mother and was rescued by Martinez, but the shock of seeing her mother burned to death and, perhaps, the shock of seeing you refuse to save her mother——"

"It's a lie!" yelled the prisoner.

"All this terror and anguish caused a violent mental disturbance in the girl and resulted in a failure of her memory. When she came out of the fire it was as if a curtain had fallen over her past life, she had lost the sense of her own personality, she did not know her own name, she was helpless, you could do as you pleased with her. And she was a great heiress! If she lived, she inherited her mother's fortune; if she died, this fortune reverted to you. So shrinking, perhaps, from the actual killing of this girl, you destroyed her identity; you gave it out that she, too, had perished in the flames and you proceeded to enjoy her stolen fortune while she sold candles in Notre-Dame church."

"You have no proof of it!" shouted Groener.

"No? What is this?" and he signaled the operator, whereupon the lights went down and the picture of Alice and the widow appeared again. "There is the girl whom you have wronged and defrauded. Now watch the woman, your Brussels accomplice, watch her carefully—carefully," he motioned to the operator and the smooth young widow faded gradually, while the face and form of another woman took her place beside the girl. "Now we have the picture as it was before you falsified it. Do you recognize this face?"

"No," answered the prisoner, but his heart was pounding.

"It is your wife. Look!"

Under the picture came the inscription: "To my dear husband Raoul with the love of Margaret and her little Mary."

"I wish we had the dial on him now," whispered Duprat to M. Paul.

"There are your two victims!" accused the magistrate. "Mary and Margaret! How long do you suppose it will take us to identify them among the Charity Bazaar unfortunates? It is a matter of a few hours' record searching. What must we look for? A rich American lady who married a Frenchman. Her name is Margaret. She had a daughter named Mary. The Frenchman's name is Raoul and he probably has a title. We have, also, the lady's photograph and the daughter's photograph and a specimen of the lady's handwriting. Could anything be simpler? The first authority we meet on noble fortune hunters will tell us all about it. And then, M. Adolf Groener, we shall know whether it is a, marquis or a duke whose name must be added to the list of distinguished assassins."

He paused for a reply, but none came. The guard moved suddenly in the shadows and called for help.

"Lights!" said the doctor sharply and, as the lamps shone out, the prisoner was seen limp and white, sprawling over a chair.

Duprat hurried to him and pressed an ear to his heart.

"He has fainted," said the doctor.

Coquenil looked half pityingly at his stricken adversary. "Down and out," he murmured.

Duprat, meantime, was working over the prisoner, rubbing his wrists, loosening his shirt and collar.

"Ammonia—quick," he said to his assistant, and a moment later, with the strong fumes at his nostrils, Groener stirred and opened his eyes weakly.

Just then a sound was heard in the distance as of a galloping horse. The white-faced prisoner started and listened eagerly. Nearer and nearer came the rapid hoof beats, echoing through the deserted streets. Now the horse was crossing the little bridge near the hospital, now he was coming madly down the Boulevard du Palais. Who was this rider dashing so furiously through the peaceful night?

As they all turned wondering, the horse drew up suddenly before the palace and a voice was heard in sharp command. Then the great iron gates swung open and the horse stamped in.

Hauteville hurried to the open window and stood there listening. Just below him in the courtyard he made out of the flashing helmet and imposing uniform of a mounted garde de Paris. And he caught some quick words that made him start.

"A messenger from the Prime Minister," muttered the judge, "on urgent business with me."

Groener heard and, with a long sigh, sank back against the chair and closed his eyes, but Coquenil noticed uneasily that just a flicker of the old patronizing smile was playing about his pallid lips.



CHAPTER XXVI

COQUENIL'S MOTHER

In accordance with orders, Papa Tignol appeared at the Villa Montmorency betimes the next morning. It was a perfect summer's day and the old man's heart was light as he walked up the Avenue des Tilleuls, past vine-covered walls and smiling gardens.

"Eh, eh!" he chuckled, "it's good to be alive on a day like this and to know what I know."

He was thinking, with a delicious thrill, of the rapid march of events in the last twenty-four hours, of the keen pursuit, the tricks and disguises, the anxiety and the capture and then of the great coup of the evening. Bon dieu, what a day!

And now the chase was over! The murderer was tucked away safely in a cell at the depot. Ouf, he had given them some bad moments, this wood carver! But for M. Paul they would never have caught the slippery devil, never! Ah, what a triumph for M. Paul! He would have the whole department bowing down to him now. And Gibelin! Eh, eh! Gibelin!

Tignol closed the iron gate carefully behind him and walked down the graveled walk with as little crunching as possible. He had an idea that Coquenil might still be sleeping and if anyone in Paris had earned a long sleep it was Paul Coquenil.

To his surprise, however, the detective was not only up and dressed, but he was on his knees in the study before a large leather bag into which he was hastily throwing various garments brought down by the faithful Melanie, whose joy at having her master home again was evidently clouded by this prospect of an imminent departure.

"Ah, Papa Tignol!" said M. Paul as the old man entered, but there was no heartiness in his tone. "Sit down, sit down."

Tignol sank back in one of the red-leather chairs and waited wonderingly. This was not the buoyant reception he had expected.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked finally.

"Why—er—why, yes," nodded Coquenil, but he went on packing and did not say what was wrong. And Tignol did not ask.

"Going away?" he ventured after a silence.

M. Paul shut the bag with a jerk and tightened the side straps, then he threw himself wearily into a chair.

"Yes, I—I'm going away."

The detective leaned back and closed his eyes, he looked worn and gray. Tignol watched him anxiously through a long silence. What could be the trouble? What had happened? He had never seen M. Paul like this, so broken and—one would say, discouraged. And this was the moment of his triumph, the proudest moment in his career. It must be the reaction from these days of strain, yes that was it.

M. Paul opened his eyes and said in a dull tone: "Did you take the girl to Pougeot last night?"

"Yes, she's all right. The commissary says he will look after her as if she were his own daughter until he hears from you."

"Good! And—you showed her the ring?"

The old man nodded. "She understands, she will be careful, but—there's nothing for her to worry about now—is there?"

Coquenil's face darkened. "You'd better let me have the ring before I forget it."

"Thanks!" He slipped the old talisman on his finger, and then, after a troubled pause, he said: "There is more for her to worry about than ever."

"More? You mean on account of Groener?"

"Yes."

"But he's caught, he's in prison."

The detective shook his head. "He's not in prison."

"Not in prison?"

"He was set at liberty about—about two o'clock this morning."

Tignol stared stupidly, scarcely taking in the words. "But—but he's guilty."

"I know."

"You have all this evidence against him?"

"Yes."

"Then—then how is he at liberty?" stammered the other.

Coquenil reached for a match, struck it deliberately and lighted a cigarette.

"By order of the Prime Minister," he said quietly, and blew out a long white fragrant cloud.

"You mean—without trial?"

"Yes—without trial. He's a very important person, Papa Tignol."

The old man scratched his head in perplexity. "I didn't know anybody was too important to be tried for murder."

"He can't be tried until he's committed for trial by a judge."

"Well? And Hauteville?"

"Hauteville will never commit him."

"Why not?"

"Because Hauteville has been removed from office."

"Wha-at?"

"His commission was revoked this morning by order of the Minister of Justice."

"Judge Hauteville—discharged!" murmured Tignol, in bewilderment.

Coquenil nodded and then added sorrowfully: "And you, too, my poor friend. Everyone who has had anything to do with this case, from the highest to the lowest, will suffer. We all made a frightful mistake, they say, in daring to arrest and persecute this most distinguished and honorable citizen. Ha, ha!" he concluded bitterly as he lighted another cigarette.

"C'est epatant!" exclaimed Tignol. "He must be a rich devil!"

"He's rich and—much more."

"Whe-ew! He must be a senator or—or something like that?"

"Much more," said Coquenil grimly.

"More than a senator? Then—then a cabinet minister? No, it isn't possible?"

"He is more important than a cabinet minister, far more important."

"Holy snakes!" gasped Tignol. "I don't see anything left except the Prime Minister himself."

"This man is so highly placed," declared Coquenil gravely, "he is so powerful that——"

"Stop!" interrupted the other. "I know. He was in that coaching party; he killed the dog, it was—it was the Duke de Montreuil."

"No, it was not," replied Coquenil. "The Duke de Montreuil is rich and powerful, as men go in France, but this man is of international importance, his fortune amounts to a thousand million francs, at least, and his power is—well—he could treat the Duke de Montreuil like a valet."

"Who—who is he?"

Coquenil pointed to his table where a book lay open. "Do you see that red book? It's the Annuaire de la Noblesse Francaise. You'll find his name there—marked with a pencil."

Tignol went eagerly to the table, then, as he glanced at the printed page there came over his face an expression of utter amazement.

"It isn't possible!" he cried.

"I know," agreed Coquenil, "it isn't possible, but—it's true!"

"Dieu de Dieu de Dieu!" frowned the old man, bobbing his cropped head and tugging at his sweeping black mustache. Then slowly in awe-struck tones he read from the great authority on French titles:

BARON FELIX RAOUL DE HEIDELMANN-BRUCK, only son of the Baron Georges Raoul de Heidelmann-Bruck, upon whom the title was conferred for industrial activities under the Second Empire. B. Jan. 19, 1863. Lieutenant in the 45th cuirassiers, now retired. Has extensive iron and steel works near St. Etienne. Also naval construction yards at Brest. Member of the Jockey Club, the Cercle de la Rue Royale, the Yacht Club of France, the Automobile Club, the Aero Club, etc. Decorations: Commander of the Legion of Honor, the order of St. Maurice and Lazare (Italy), the order of Christ (Portugal), etc. Address: Paris, Hotel Rue de Varennes Chateau near Langier, Touraine. Married Mrs. Elizabeth Coogan, who perished with her daughter Mary in the Charity Bazaar fire.

"You see, it's all there," said M. Paul. "His name is Raoul and his wife's name was Margaret. She died in the Charity Bazaar fire, and his stepdaughter Mary is put down as having died there, too. We know where she is."

"The devil! The devil! The devil!" muttered Tignol, his nut-cracker face screwed up in comical perplexity. "This will rip things wide, wide open."

The detective shook his head. "It won't rip anything open."

"But if he is guilty?"

"No one will know it, no one would believe it."

"You know it, you can prove it."

"How can I prove it? The courts are closed against me. And even if they weren't, do you suppose it would be possible to convict the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck of any crime? Nonsense! He's the most powerful man in France. He controls the banks, the bourse, the government. He can cause a money panic by lifting his hand. He can upset the ministry by a word over the telephone. He financed the campaign that brought in the present radical government, and his sister is the wife of the Prime Minister."

"And he killed Martinez!" added Tignol.

"Yes."

For fully a minute the two men faced each other in silence. M. Paul lighted another cigarette.

"Couldn't you tell what you know in the newspapers?"

"No newspaper in France would dare to print it," said Coquenil gravely.

"Perhaps there is some mistake," suggested the other, "perhaps he isn't the man."

The detective opened his table drawer and drew out several photographs. "Look at those!"

One by one Tignol studied the photographs. "It's the man we arrested, all right—without the beard."

"It's the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck," said Coquenil.

Tignol gazed at the pictures with a kind of fascination.

"How many millions did you say he has?"

"A thousand—or more."

"A thousand millions!" He screwed up his face again and pulled reflectively on his long red nose. "And I put the handcuffs on him! Holy camels!"

Coquenil lighted another cigarette and breathed in the smoke deeply.

"Aren't you smoking too many of those things? That makes five in ten minutes."

M. Paul shrugged his shoulders. "What's the difference?"

"I see, you're thinking out some plan," approved the other.

"Plan for what?"

"For putting this thousand-million-franc devil where he belongs," grinned the old man.

The detective eyed his friend keenly. "Papa Tignol, that's the prettiest compliment anyone ever paid me. In spite of all I have said you have confidence that I could do this man up—somehow, eh?"

"Sure!"

"I don't know, I don't know," reflected Coquenil, and a shadow of sadness fell over his pale, weary face. "Perhaps I could, but—I'm not going to try."

"You—you're not going to try?"

"No, I'm through, I wash my hands of the case. The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck can sleep easily as far as I am concerned."

Tignol bounded to his feet and his little eyes flashed indignantly. "I don't believe it," he cried. "I won't have it. You can't tell me Paul Coquenil is afraid. Are you afraid?"

"I don't think so," smiled the other.

"And Paul Coquenil hasn't been bought? He can't be bought—can he?"

"I hope not."

"Then—then what in thunder do you mean," he demanded fiercely, "by saying you drop this case?"

M. Paul felt in his coat pocket and drew out a folded telegram. "Read that, old friend," he answered with emotion, "and—and thank you for your good opinion."

Slowly Tignol read the contents of the blue sheet.

M. PAUL COQUENIL, Villa Montmorency, Paris.

House and barn destroyed by incendiary fire in night. Your mother saved, but seriously injured. M. Abel says insurance policy had lapsed. Come at once.

ERNESTINE.

"Quel malheur! Quel malheur!" exclaimed the old man. "My poor M. Paul! Forgive me! I'm a stupid fool," and he grasped his companion's hand in quick sympathy.

"It's all right, you didn't understand," said the other gently.

"And you—you think it's his doing?"

"Of course. He must have given the order in that cipher dispatch to Dubois. Dubois is a secret agent of the government. He communicated with the Prime Minister, but the Prime Minister was away inaugurating a statue; he didn't return until after midnight. That is why the man wasn't set at liberty sooner. No wonder he kept looking at the clock."

"And Dubois telegraphed to have this hellish thing done?"

"Yes, yes, they had warned me, they had killed my dog, and—and now they have struck at my mother." He bent down his head on his hands. "She's all I've got, Tignol, she's seventy years old and—infirm and—no, no, I quit, I'm through."

In his distress and perplexity the old man could think of nothing to say; he simply tugged at his fierce mustache and swore hair-raising oaths under his breath.

"And the insurance?" he asked presently. "What does that mean?"

"I sent the renewal money to this lawyer Abel," answered Coquenil in a dull tone. "They have used him against me to—to take my savings. I had put about all that I had into this home for my mother. You see they want to break my heart and—they've just about done it."

He was silent a moment, then glanced quickly at his watch. "Come, we have no time to lose. My train leaves in an hour. I have important things to explain—messages for Pougeot and the girl—I'll tell you in the carriage."

Five minutes later they were speeding swiftly in an automobile toward the Eastern railway station.

* * * * *

There followed three days of pitiful anxiety for Coquenil. His mother's health was feeble at the best, and the shock of this catastrophe, the sudden awakening in the night to find flames roaring about her, the difficult rescue, and the destruction of her peaceful home, all this was very serious for the old lady; indeed, there were twenty-four hours during which the village doctor could offer small comfort to the distracted son.

Madam Coquenil, however, never wavered in her sweet faith that all was well. She was comfortable now in the home of a hospitable neighbor and declared she would soon be on her feet again. It was this faith that saved her, vowed Ernestine, her devoted companion; but the doctor laughed and said it was the presence of M. Paul.

At any rate, within the week all danger was past and Coquenil observed uneasily that, along with her strength and gay humor, his mother was rapidly recovering her faculty of asking embarrassing questions and of understanding things that had not been told her. In the matter of keen intuitions it was like mother like son.

So, delay as he would and evade as he would, the truth had finally to be told, the whole unqualified truth; he had given up this case that he had thought so important, he had abandoned a fight that he had called the greatest of his life.

"Why have you done it, my boy?" the old lady asked him gently, her searching eyes fixed gravely on him. "Tell me—tell me everything."

And he did as she bade him, just as he used to when he was little; he told her all that had happened from the crime to the capture, then of the assassin's release and his own baffling failure at the very moment of success.

His mother listened with absorbed interest, she thrilled, she radiated, she sympathized; and she shivered at the thought of such power for evil.

When he had finished, she lay silent, thinking it all over, not wishing to speak hastily, while Paul stroked her white hand.

"And the young man?" she asked presently. "The one who is innocent? What about him?"

"He is in prison, he will be tried."

"And then? They have evidence against him, you said so—the footprints, the pistol, perhaps more that this man can manufacture. Paul, he will be found guilty?"

"I—I don't know."

"But you think so?"

"It's possible, mother, but—I've done all I can."

"He will be found guilty," she repeated, "this innocent young man will be found guilty. You know it, and—you give up the case."

"That's unfair. I give up the case because your life is more precious to me than the lives of fifty young men."

The old lady paused a moment, holding his firm hand in her two slender ones, then she said sweetly, yet in half reproach: "My son, do you think your life is less precious to me than mine is to you?"

"Why—why, no," he said.

"It isn't, but we can't shirk our burdens, Paul." She pointed simply to the picture of a keen-eyed soldier over the fireplace, a brave, lovable face. "If we are men we do our work; if we are women, we bear what comes. That is how your father felt when he left me to—to—you understand, my boy?"

"Yes, mother."

"I want you to decide in that spirit. If it's right to drop this case, I shall be glad, but I don't want you to drop it because you are afraid—for me, or—for anything."

"But mother——"

"Listen, Paul; I know how you love me, but you mustn't put me first in this matter, you must put your honor first, and the honor of your father's name."

"I've decided the thing"—he frowned—"it's all settled. I have sent word by Tignol to the Brazilian embassy that I will accept that position in Rio Janeiro. It's still open, and—mother," he went on eagerly, "I'm going to take you with me."

Her face brightened under its beautiful crown of silver-white hair, but she shook her head.

"I couldn't go, Paul; I could never bear that long sea journey, and I should be unhappy away from these dear old mountains. If you go, you must go alone. I don't say you mustn't go, I only ask you to think, to think."

"I have thought," he answered impatiently. "I've done nothing but think, ever since Ernestine sent that telegram."

"You have thought about me," she chided. "Have you thought about the case? Have you thought that, if you give it up, an innocent man will suffer and a guilty man will go unpunished?"

"Hah! The guilty man! It's a jolly sure thing he'll go unpunished, whatever I do."

"I don't believe it," cried the old lady, springing forward excitedly in her invalid's chair, "such wickedness cannot go unpunished. No, my boy, you can conquer, you will conquer."

"I can't fight the whole of France," he retorted sharply. "You don't understand this man's power, mother; I might as well try to conquer the devil."

"I don't ask you to do that," she laughed, "but—isn't there anything you can think of? You've always won out in the past, and—what is this man's intelligence to yours?" She paused and then went on more earnestly: "Paul, I'm so proud of you, and—you can't rest under this wrong that has been done you. I want the Government to make amends for putting you off the force. I want them to publicly recognize your splendid services. And they will, my son, they must, if you will only go ahead now, and—there I'm getting foolish." She brushed away some springing tears. "Come, we'll talk of something else."

Nothing more was said about the case, but the seed was sown, and as the evening passed, the wise old lady remarked that her son fell into moody silences and strode about restlessly. And, knowing the signs, she left him to his thoughts.

When bedtime came, Paul kissed her tenderly good night and then turned to withdraw, but he paused at the door, and with a look that she remembered well from the days of his boyhood transgressions, a look of mingled frankness and shamefacedness, he came back to her bedside.

"Mother," he said, "I want to be perfectly honest about this thing; I told you there is nothing that I could do against this man; as a matter of fact, there is one thing that I could possibly do. It's a long shot, with the odds all against me, and, if I should fail, he would do me up, that's sure; still, I must admit that I see a chance, one small chance of—landing him. I thought I'd tell you because—well, I thought I'd tell you."

"My boy!" she cried. "My brave boy! I'm happy now. All I wanted was to have you think this thing over alone, and—decide alone. Good night, Paul! God bless you and—help you!"

"Good night, mother," he said fondly. "I will decide before to-morrow, and—whatever I do, I—I'll remember what you say."

Then he went to his room and for hours through the night Ernestine, watching by the patient, saw his light burning.

The next morning he came again to his mother's bedside with his old buoyant smile, and after loving greetings, he said simply: "It's all right, little mother, I see my way. I'm going to take the chance, and," he nodded confidently, "between you and me, it isn't such a slim chance, either."



CHAPTER XXVII

THE DIARY

Coquenil's effort during the next month might be set forth in great detail. It may also be told briefly, which is better, since the result rather than the means is of moment.

The detective began by admitting the practical worthlessness of the evidence in hand against this formidable adversary, and he abandoned, for the moment, his purpose of proving that De Heidelmann-Bruck had killed Martinez. Under the circumstances there was no way of proving it, for how can the wheels of justice be made to turn against an individual who absolutely controls the manner of their turning, who is able to remove annoying magistrates with a snap of his fingers, and can use the full power of government, the whole authority of the Prime Minister of France and the Minister of Justice for his personal convenience and protection?

The case was so extraordinary and unprecedented that it could obviously be met only (if at all) by extraordinary and unprecedented measures. Such measures Coquenil proceeded to conceive and carry out, realizing fully that, in so doing, he was taking his life in his hands. His first intuition had come true, he was facing a great criminal and must either destroy or be destroyed; it was to be a ruthless fight to a finish between Paul Coquenil and the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck.

And, true to his intuitions, as he had been from the start, M. Paul resolved to seek the special and deadly arm that he needed against this sinister enemy in the baron's immediate entourage; in fact, in his own house and home. That was the detective's task, to be received, unsuspected, as an inmate of De Heidelmann-Bruck's great establishment on the Rue de Varennes, the very center of the ancient nobility of Paris.

In this purpose he finally succeeded, after what wiles and pains need not be stated, being hired at moderate wages as a stable helper, with a small room over the carriage house, and miscellaneous duties that included much drudgery in cleaning the baron's numerous automobiles. It may truthfully be said that no more willing pair of arms ever rubbed and scrubbed their aristocratic brasses.

The next thing was to gain the confidence, then the complicity of one of the men servants in the hotel itself, so that he might be given access to the baron's private apartments at the opportune moment. In the horde of hirelings about a great man there is always one whose ear is open to temptation, and the baron's household was no exception to this rule. Coquenil (known now as Jacques and looking the stable man to perfection) found a dignified flunky in black side whiskers and white-silk stockings who was not above accepting some hundred-franc notes in return for sure information as to the master's absences from home and for necessary assistance in the way of keys and other things.

Thus it came to pass that on a certain night in August, about two in the morning, Paul Coquenil found himself alone in the baron's spacious, silent library before a massive safe. The opening of this safe is another matter that need not be gone into—a desperate case justifies desperate risk, and an experienced burglar chaser naturally becomes a bit of a burglar himself; at any rate, the safe swung open in due course, without accident or interference, and the detective stood before it.

All this Coquenil had done on a chance, without positive knowledge, save for the assurance of the black-whiskered valet that the baron wrote frequently in a diary which he kept locked in the safe. Whether this was true, and, if so, whether the baron had been mad enough to put down with his own hand a record of his own wickedness, were matters of pure conjecture. Coquenil was convinced that this journal would contain what he wanted; he did not believe that a man like De Heidelmann-Bruck would keep a diary simply to fill in with insipidities. If he kept it at all, it would be because it pleased him to analyze, fearlessly, his own extraordinary doings, good or bad. The very fact that the baron was different from ordinary men, a law unto himself, made it likely that he would disregard what ordinary men would call prudence in a matter like this; there is no such word as imprudence for one who is practically all-powerful, and, if it tickled the baron's fancy to keep a journal of crime, it was tolerably certain he would keep it.

The event proved that he did keep it. On one of the shelves of the safe, among valuable papers and securities, the detective found a thick book bound in black leather and fastened with heavy gold clasps. It was the diary.

With a thrill of triumph, Coquenil seized upon the volume, then, closing the safe carefully, without touching anything else, he returned to his room in the stable. His purpose was accomplished, and now he had only one thought—to leave the hotel as quickly as possible; it would be a matter of a few moments to pack his modest belongings, then he could rouse the doorkeeper and be off with his bag and the precious record.

As he started to act on this decision, however, and steal softly down to the courtyard, the detective paused and looked at his watch. It was not yet three o'clock, and M. Paul, in the real burglar spirit, reflected that his departure with a bag, at this unseasonable hour, might arouse the doorkeeper's suspicion; whereas, if he waited until half past five, the gate would be open and he could go out unnoticed. So he decided to wait. After all, there was no danger, the baron was away from Paris, and no one would enter the library before seven or eight.

While he waited, Coquenil opened the diary and began to read. There were some four hundred neatly written pages, brief separate entries without dates, separate thoughts as it were, and, as he turned through them he found himself more and more absorbed until, presently, he forgot time, place, danger, everything; an hour passed, two hours, and still the detective read on while his candle guttered down to the stick and the brightening day filled his mean stable room; he was absolutely lost in a most extraordinary human document, in one of those terrible utterances, shameless and fearless, that are flung out, once in a century or so, from the hot somber depths of a man's being.

I

I have kept this diary because it amuses me, because I am not afraid, because my nature craves and demands some honest expression somewhere. If these pages were read I should be destroyed. I understand that, but I am in constant danger of being destroyed, anyway. I might be killed by an automobile accident. A small artery in my brain might snap. My heart might stop beating for various reasons. And it is no more likely that this diary will be found and read (with the precautions I have taken) than that one of these other things will happen. Besides, I have no fear, since I regard my own life and all other lives as of absolutely trifling importance.

II

I say here to myself what thousands of serious and successful men all over the world are saying to themselves, what the enormous majority of men must say to themselves, that is, that I am (and they are) constantly committing crimes and we are therefore criminals. Some of us kill, some steal, some seduce virgins, some take our friends' wives, but most of us, in one way or another, deliberately and repeatedly break the law, so we are criminals.

III

Half the great men of this world are great criminals. The Napoleons of war murder thousands, the Napoleons of trade and finance plunder tens of thousands. It is the same among beasts and fishes, among birds and insects, probably among angels and devils, everywhere we find one inexorable law, resistless as gravitation, that impels the strong to plunder and destroy the weak.

IV

It is five years since I committed what would be called a monstrous and cowardly crime. As a matter of fact, I did what my intelligence recognized as necessary and what was therefore my duty. However, let us call it a crime. I have been interested to watch for any consequences or effects of this crime in myself and I have discovered none. I study my face carefully and fail to find any marks of wickedness. My eyes are clear and beautiful, my skin is remarkably free from lines. I am in splendid health, I eat well, sleep well, and enjoy life. My nerves are absolutely steady. I have never felt the slightest twinge of remorse. I have a keen sense of humor. I look five years younger than I am and ten years younger than men who have drudged virtuously and uncomplainingly on the "Thy-will-be-done" plan. I am certainly a better man, better looking, better feeling, stronger in every way than I was before I committed this crime. It is absolute nonsense, therefore, to say that sin or crime (I mean intelligent sin or crime) put an ugly stamp on a man. The ugly stamp comes from bad health, bad surroundings, bad conditions of life, and these can usually be changed by money. Which I have!

V

Last night (July 4th) I shot a man (Martinez) at the Ansonia Hotel. I observed my sensations carefully and must say that they were of a most commonplace character. There was no danger in the adventure, nothing difficult about it; in fact, it was far less exciting than shooting moose in the Maine woods or tracking grizzlies in the Rockies or going after tigers in India. There is really nothing so tame as shooting a man!

VI

There is no necessary connection between crime and vice. Some of the most vicious men—I mean gluttons, drunkards, degenerates, drug fiends, etc. have never committed any crimes of importance. On the other hand, I am satisfied that great criminals are usually free from vices. It must be so, for vices weaken the will and dull the brain. I take a little wine at my meals, but never to excess, and I never was drunk in my life. I smoke three or four cigars a day and occasionally a cigarette, that is all. And I never gamble. No doubt there are vicious criminals, but they would probably have been vicious if they had not been criminals.

VII

I have the most tremendous admiration for myself, for my courage, for my intelligence, for the use I have made of my opportunities. I started as the son of a broken-down nobleman, my material assets being a trumpery title. My best chance was to marry one of the vain and shallow rich women of America, and by many brilliant maneuvers in a most difficult and delicate campaign, I succeeded in marrying the very richest of them. She was a widow with an enormous fortune that her husband (a rapacious brute) had wrung from the toil of thousands in torturing mines. Following his method, I disposed of the woman, then of her daughter, and came into possession of the fortune. It would have been a silly thing to leave such vast potential power to a chit of a girl unable to use it or appreciate it. I have used it as a master, as a man of brain, as a gentleman. I have made myself a force throughout Europe, I have overthrown ministries, averted wars, built up great industries, helped the development of literature and art; in short, I have made amends for the brutality and dishonesty of the lady's first husband. I believe his name was Mike!

VIII

I am afraid of this girl's dreams! I can control her body, and when she is awake, I can more or less control her mind. But I cannot control her dreams. Sometimes, when I look into the depths of her strange, beautiful eyes, it seems to me she knows things or half knows them with some other self. I am afraid of her dreams!

Coquenil had reached this point in his reading and was pressing on through the pages, utterly oblivious to everything, when a harsh voice broke in upon him: "You seem to have an interesting book, my friend?"

Looking up with a start, M. Paul saw De Heidelmann-Bruck himself standing in the open doorway. His hands were thrust carelessly in his coat pockets and a mocking smile played about his lips, the smile that Coquenil had learned to fear.

"It's more than interesting, it's marvelous, it's unbelievable," answered the detective quietly. "Please shut that door. There's a draught coming in."

As he spoke he sneezed twice and reached naturally toward his coat as if for a handkerchief.

"No, no! None of that!" warned the other sharply. "Hands up!" And Coquenil obeyed. "My pistol is on you in this side pocket. If you move, I'll shoot through the cloth."

"That's a cowboy trick; you must have traveled in the Far West," said M. Paul lightly.

"Stand over there!" came the order. "Face against the wall! Hands high! Now keep still!"

Coquenil did as he was bidden. He stood against the wall while quick fingers went through his clothes, he felt his pistol taken from him, then something soft and wet pressed under his nostrils. He gasped and a sweetish, sickening breath filled his lungs, he tried to struggle, but iron arms held him helpless. He felt himself drifting into unconsciousness and strove vainly against it. He knew he had lost the battle, there was nothing to hope for from this man—nothing. Well—it had been a finish fight and—one or the other had to go. He was the one, he was going—going. He—he couldn't fix his thoughts. What queer lights! Hey, Caesar! How silly! Caesar was dead—Oh! he must tell Papa Tignol that—a man shouldn't swear so with a—red—nose. Stop! this must be the—end and——

With a last rally of his darkening consciousness, Coquenil called up his mother's face and, looking at it through the eyes of his soul, he spoke to her across the miles, in a wild, voiceless cry: "I did the best I could, little mother, the—the best I—could."

Then utter blackness!



CHAPTER XXVIII

A GREAT CRIMINAL

Coquenil came back to consciousness his first thought was that the adventure had brought him no pain; he moved his arms and legs and discovered no injury, then he reached out a hand and found that he was lying on a cold stone floor with his head on a rough sack filled apparently with shavings.

He did not open his eyes, but tried to think where he could be and to imagine what had happened. It was not conceivable that his enemy would let him escape, this delay was merely preliminary to something else and—he was certainly a prisoner—somewhere.

Reasoning thus he caught a sound as of rustling paper, then a faint scratching. With eyes still shut, he turned his face toward the scratching sound, then away from it, then toward it, then away from it. Now he sniffed the air about him, now he rubbed a finger on the floor and smelled it, now he lay quiet and listened. He had found a fascinating problem, and for a long time he studied it without moving and without opening his eyes.

Finally he spoke aloud in playful reproach: "It's a pity, baron, to write in that wonderful diary of yours with a lead pencil."

Instantly there came the scraping of a chair and quick approaching steps.

"How did you see me?" asked a harsh voice.

Coquenil smiled toward a faint light, but kept his eyes closed. "I didn't, I haven't seen you yet."

"But you knew I was writing in my diary?"

"Because you were so absorbed that you did not hear me stir."

"Humph! And the lead pencil?"

"I heard you sharpen it. That was just before you stopped to eat the orange."

The light came nearer. M. Paul felt that the baron was bending over him.

"What's the matter? Your eyes are shut."

"It amuses me to keep them shut. Do you mind?"

"Singular man!" mattered the other. "What makes you think I ate an orange?"



"I got the smell of it when you tore the peel off and I heard the seeds drop."

The baron's voice showed growing interest. "Where do you think you are?"

"In a deep underground room where you store firewood."

"Extraordinary!"

"Not at all. The floor is covered with chips of it and this bag is full of shavings."

"How do you know we are underground?"

"By the smell of the floor and because you need a candle when it's full daylight above."

"Then you know what time it is?" asked the other incredulously.

"Why—er—I can tell by looking." He opened his eyes. "Ah, it's earlier than I thought, it's barely seven."

"How the devil do you know that?"

Coquenil did not answer for a moment. He was looking about him wonderingly, noting the damp stone walls and high vaulted ceiling of a large windowless chamber. By the uncertain light of the baron's candle he made out an arched passageway at one side and around the walls piles of logs carefully roped and stacked together.

"Your candle hasn't burned more than an hour," answered the detective.

"It might be a second candle."

M. Paul shook his head. "Then you wouldn't have been eating your breakfast orange. And you wouldn't have been waiting so patiently."

The two men eyed each other keenly.

"Coquenil," said De Heidelmann-Bruck slowly, "I give you credit for unusual cleverness, but if you tell me you have any inkling what I am waiting for——"

"It's more than inkling," answered the detective quietly, "I know that you are waiting for the girl."

"The girl?" The other started.

"The girl Alice or—Mary your stepdaughter."

"God Almighty!" burst out the baron. "What a guess!"

M. Paul shook his head. "No, not a guess, a fair deduction. My ring is gone. It was on my hand before you gave me that chloroform. You took it. That means you needed it. Why? To get the girl! You knew it would bring her, though how you knew it is more than I can understand."

"Gibelin heard you speak of the ring to Pougeot that night in the automobile."

"Ah! And how did you know where the girl was?"

"Guessed it partly and—had Pougeot followed."

"And she's coming here?"

The baron nodded. "She ought to be here shortly." Then with a quick, cruel smile: "I suppose you know why I want her?"

"I'm afraid I do," said Coquenil.

"Suppose we come in here," suggested the other. "I'm tired holding this candle and you don't care particularly about lying on that bag of shavings."

With this he led the way through the arched passageway into another stone chamber very much like the first, only smaller, and lined in the same way with piled-up logs. In the middle of the floor was a rough table spread with food, and two rough chairs. On the table lay the diary.

"Sit down," continued the baron. "Later on you can eat, but first we'll have a talk. Coquenil, I've watched you for years, I know all about you, and—I'll say this, you're the most interesting man I ever met. You've given me trouble, but—that's all right, you played fair, and—I like you, I like you."

There was no doubt about the genuineness of this and M. Paul glanced wonderingly across the table.

"Thanks," he said simply.

"It's a pity you couldn't see things my way. I wanted to be your friend, I wanted to help you. Just think how many times I've gone out of my way to give you chances, fine business chances."

"I know."

"And that night on the Champs Elysees! Didn't I warn you? Didn't I almost plead with you to drop this case? And you wouldn't listen?"

"That's true."

"Now see where you are! See what you've forced me to do. It's a pity; it cuts me up, Coquenil." He spoke with real sadness.

"I understand," answered M. Paul. "I appreciate what you say. There's a bond between a good detective and——"

"A great detective!" put in the baron admiringly, "the greatest detective Paris has known in fifty years or will know in fifty more. Yes, yes, it's a pity!"

"I was saying," resumed the other, "that there is a bond between a detective and a criminal—I suppose it gets stronger between a—a great detective," he smiled, "and a great criminal."

De Heidelmann-Bruck looked pleased. "You regard me as a great criminal?"

Coquenil nodded gravely. "I certainly do. The greatest since Ludovico Schertzi—you know he had your identical little finger."

"Really!"

"Yes. And your absolute lack of feeling about crime. Never a tremor! Never a qualm of remorse! Just cold intelligence!"

"Of course." The baron held his left hand close to the candle and looked at it critically. "Strange about that little finger! And pretty the way you caught the clew of it on that photographer's neck. Poor little devil!"

"What did you do with the boots you were trying to return that night?" questioned the detective.

"Burned them."

Coquenil was silent a moment. "And this American? What of him—now?"

"He will be tried and——" The baron shrugged his shoulders.

"And be found guilty?"

"Yes, but—with jealousy as an extenuating circumstance. He'll do a few years, say five."

"I never saw quite why you put the guilt on him."

"It had to go on some one and—he was available."

"You had nothing against him personally?"

"Oh, no. He was a pawn in the game."

"A pawn to be sacrificed—like Martinez?"

"Exactly."

"Ah, that brings me to the main point. How did Martinez get possession of your secret?"

"He met the girl accidentally and—remembered her."

"As the one he had rescued from the Charity Bazaar fire?"

"Yes. You'd better eat a little. Try some of this cold meat and salad? My cook makes rather good dressing."

"No, thanks! Speaking of cooks, how did you know the name of that canary bird?"

"Ha, ha! Pete? I knew it from the husband of the woman who opens the big gate of the Villa Montmorency. He cleans your windows, you know, and—he was useful to me."

"He knew you as—Groener?"

"Of course."

"None of these people knew you really?"

"No."

"Not Dubois?"

"Ah, Dubois knew me, of course, but—Dubois is an automaton to carry out orders; he never knows what they mean. Anything else?"

Coquenil thought a moment. "Oh! Did you know that private room Number Seven would not be occupied that night by Wilmott and the dancing girl?"

"No."

"Then how did you dare go in there?"

"Wilmott and the girl were not due until nine and I had—finished by half past eight."

"How did you know Wilmott would not be there until nine?"

"Martinez told me. It was in Anita's petit bleu that Mrs. Wilmott showed him."

"Had you no direct dealings with Anita?"

The baron shook his head. "I never saw the girl. The thing just happened and—I took my chance."

"You bought the auger for Martinez and told him where to bore the holes?"

"Yes."

"And the key to the alleyway door?"

"I got a duplicate key—through Dubois. Anything else?"

"It's all very clever," reflected M. Paul, "but—isn't it too clever? Too complicated? Why didn't you get rid of this billiard player in some simpler way?"

"A natural question," agreed De Heidelmann-Bruck. "I could have done it easily in twenty ways—twenty stupid safe ways. But don't you see that is what I didn't want? It was necessary to suppress Martinez, but, in suppressing him as I did, there was also good sport. And when a man has everything, Coquenil, good sport is mighty rare."

"I see, I see," murmured the detective. "And you let Alice live all these years for the same reason?"

"Yes."

"The wood-carver game diverted you?"

"Precisely. It put a bit of ginger into existence." He paused, and half closing his eyes, added musingly: "I'll miss it now. And I'll miss the zest of fighting you."

"Ah!" said Coquenil. "By the way, how long have you known that I was working here in your stable?"

The baron smiled. "Since the first day."

"And—you knew about the valet?"

"Naturally."

"And about the safe?"

"It was all arranged."

"Then—then you wanted me to read the diary?"

"Yes," answered the other with a strange expression. "I knew that if you read my diary I should be protected."

"I don't understand."

"Of course not, but—" Suddenly his voice grew harsher and M. Paul thought of the meeting on the Champs Elysees. "Do you realize, sir," the baron went on, and his voice was almost menacing, "that not once but half a dozen times since this affair started, I have been on the point of crushing you, of sweeping you out of my path?"

"I can believe that."

"Why haven't I done it? Why have I held back the order that was trembling on my lips? Because I admire you, I'm interested in the workings of your mind, I, yes, by God, in spite of your stubbornness and everything, I like you, Coquenil, and I don't want to harm you.

"You may not believe it," he went on, "but when you sent word to the Brazilian Embassy the other day that you would accept the Rio Janeiro offer, after all, I was honestly happy for you, not for myself. What did it matter to me? I was relieved to know that you were out of danger, that you had come to your senses. Then suddenly you went mad again and, and did this. So I said to myself: 'All right, he wants it, he'll get it,' and, I let you read the diary."

"Why?"

"Why?" cried the baron hoarsely. "Don't you see why? You know everything now, everything. It isn't guesswork, it isn't deduction, it's absolute certainty. You have seen my confession, you know that I killed Martinez, that I robbed this girl of her fortune, that I am going to let an innocent man suffer in my place. You know that to be true, don't you?"

"Yes, I know it to be true."

"And because it's true, and because we both know it to be true, neither one of us can draw back. We cannot draw back if we would. Suppose I said to you: 'Coquenil, I like you, I'm going to let you go free.' What would you reply? You would say: 'Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck, I'm much obliged, but, as an honest man, I tell you that, as soon as I am free, I shall proceed to have this enormous fortune you have been wickedly enjoying taken from you and given to its rightful owner.' Isn't that about what you would say?"

"I suppose it is," answered M. Paul.

"You know it is, and you would also say: 'Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck, I shall not only take this fortune from you and make you very poor instead of very rich, but I shall denounce you as a murderer and shall do my best to have you marched out from a cell in the Roquette prison some fine morning, about dawn, between a jailer and a priest, with your legs roped together and your shirt cut away at the back of the neck and then to have you bound against an upright plank and tipped forward gently under a forty-pound knife'—you see I know the details—and then, phsst! the knife falls and behold the head of De Heidelmann-Bruck in one basket and his body in another! That would be your general idea, eh?"

"Yes, it would," nodded the other.

"Ah!" smiled the baron. "You see how I have protected myself against my own weakness. I must destroy you or be destroyed. I am forced, M. Coquenil, to end my friendly tolerance of your existence."

"I see," murmured M. Paul. "If I hadn't read that diary, your nerve would have been a little dulled for this—business." He motioned meaningly toward the shadows.

"That's it."

"Whereas now the thing has to be done and—you'll do it."

"Exactly! Exactly!" replied the baron with the pleasure one might show at a delicate compliment.

For some moments the two were silent, then M. Paul asked gravely: "How soon will the girl be here?"

"She's undoubtedly here now. She is waiting outside." He pointed to a heavily barred iron door.

"Does she know it was a trick, about the ring?"

"Not yet."

Again there was a silence. Coquenil hesitated before he said with an effort: "Do you think it's necessary to—to include her in this—affair?"

The baron thought a moment. "I think I'd better make a clean job of it."

"You mean both?"

"Yes."

They seemed to understand by half words, by words not spoken, by little signs, as brokers in a great stock-exchange battle dispose of fortunes with a nod or a lift of the eyebrows.

"But—she doesn't know anything about you or against you," added M. Paul, and he seemed to be almost pleading.

"She has caused me a lot of trouble and, she might know."

"You mean, her memory?"

"Yes, it might come back."

"Of course," agreed the other with judicial fairness. "I asked Duprat about it and he said it might."

"Ah, you see!"

"And—when do you—begin?"

"There's no hurry. When we get through talking. Is there anything else you want to ask?"

The detective reflected a moment. "Was it you personally who killed my dog?"

"Yes."

"And my mother?" His face was very white and his voice trembled. "Did you—did you intend to kill her?"

The baron shrugged his shoulders. "I left that to chance."

"That's all," said Coquenil. "I—I am ready now."

With a look of mingled compassion and admiration De Heidelmann-Bruck met M. Paul's unflinching gaze.

"We take our medicine, eh? I took mine when you had me hitched to that heart machine, and—now you'll take yours. Good-by, Coquenil," he held out his hand, "I'm sorry."

"Good-by," answered the detective with quiet dignity. "If it's all the same to you, I—I won't shake hands."

"No? Ah, well! I'll send in the girl." He moved toward the heavy door.

"Wait!" said M. Paul. "You have left your diary." He pointed to the table.

The baron smiled mockingly. "I intended to leave it; the book has served its purpose, I'm tired of it. Don't be alarmed, it will not be found." He glanced with grim confidence at the stacked wood. "You'll have fifteen or twenty minutes after she comes in, that is, if you make no disturbance. Good-by."

The door swung open and a moment later Coquenil saw a dim, white-clad figure among the shadows, and Alice, with beautiful, frightened eyes, staggered toward him. Then the door clanged shut and the sound of grating bolts was heard on the other side.

Alice and Coquenil were alone.



CHAPTER XXIX

THE LOST DOLLY

As Alice saw M. Paul she ran forward with a glad cry and clung to his arm.

"I've been so frightened," she trembled. "The man said you wanted me and I came at once, but, in the automobile, I felt something was wrong and—you know he is outside?" Her eyes widened anxiously.

"I know. Sit down here." He pointed to the table. "Does Pougeot know about this?"

She shook her head. "The man came for M. Pougeot first. I wasn't down at breakfast yet, so I don't know what he said, but they went off together. I'm afraid it was a trick. Then about twenty minutes later the same man came back and said M. Pougeot was with you and that he had been sent to bring me to you. He showed me your ring and——"

"Yes, yes, I understand," interrupted Coquenil. "You are not to blame, only—God, what can I do?" He searched the shadows with a savage sense of helplessness.

"But it's all right, now, M. Paul," she said confidently, "I am with you."

Her look of perfect trust came to him with a stab of pain.

"My poor child," he muttered, peering about him, "I'm afraid we are—in trouble—but—wait a minute."

Taking the candle, Coquenil went through the arched opening into the larger chamber and made a hurried inspection. The room was about fifteen feet square and ten feet high, with everything of stone—walls, floor, and arched ceiling. Save for the passage into the smaller room, there was no sign of an opening anywhere except two small square holes near the ceiling, probably ventilating shafts.



Around the four walls were logs piled evenly to the height of nearly six feet, and at the archway the pile ran straight through into the smaller room. The logs were in two-foot lengths, and as the archway was about four feet wide, the passage between the two rooms was half blocked with wood.

Coquenil walked slowly around the chamber, peering carefully into cracks between the logs, as if searching for something. As he went on he held the candle lower and lower, and presently got down upon his hands and knees and crept along the base of the pile.

"What are you doing?" asked Alice, watching him in wonder from the archway.

Without replying, the detective rose to his feet, and holding the candle high above his head, examined the walls above the wood pile. Then he reached up and scraped the stones with his finger nails in several places, and then held his fingers close to the candlelight and looked at them and smelled them. His fingers were black with soot.

"M. Paul, won't you speak to me?" begged the girl.

"Just a minute, just a minute," he answered absently. Then he spoke with quick decision: "I'm going to set you to work," he said. "By the way, have you any idea where we are?"

She looked at him in surprise. "Why, don't you know?"

"I think we are on the Rue de Varennes—a big hotel back of the high wall?"

"That's right," she said.

"Ah, he didn't take me away!" reflected M. Paul. "That is something. Pougeot will scent danger and will move heaven and earth to save us. He will get Tignol and Tignol knows I was here. But can they find us? Can they find us? Tell me, did you come down many stairs?"

"Yes," she said, "quite a long flight; but won't you please——"

He cut her short, speaking kindly, but with authority.

"You mustn't ask questions, there isn't time. I may as well tell you our lives are in danger. He's going to set fire to this wood and——"

"Oh!" she cried, her eyes starting with terror.

"See here," he said sharply. "You've got to help me. We have a chance yet. The fire will start in this big chamber and—I want to cut it off by blocking the passageway. Let's see!" He searched through his pockets. "He has taken my knife. Ah, this will do!" and lifting a plate from the table he broke it against the wall. "There! Take one of these pieces and see if you can saw through the rope. Use the jagged edge—like this. That cuts it. Try over there."

Alice fell to work eagerly, and in a few moments they had freed a section of the wood piled in the smaller chamber from the restraining ropes and stakes.

"Now then," directed Coquenil, "you carry the logs to me and I'll make a barricade in the passageway."

The word passageway is somewhat misleading—there was really a distance of only three feet between the two chambers, this being the thickness of the massive stone wall that separated them. Half of this opening was already filled by the wood pile, and Coquenil proceeded to fill up the other half, laying logs on the floor, lengthwise, in the open part of the passage from chamber to chamber, and then laying other logs on top of these, and so on as rapidly as the girl brought wood.

They worked with all speed, Alice carrying the logs bravely, in spite of splintered hands and weary back, and soon the passageway was solidly walled with closely fitted logs to the height of six feet. Above this, in the arched part, Coquenil worked more slowly, selecting logs of such shape and size as would fill the curve with the fewest number of cracks between them. There was danger in cracks between the obstructing logs, for cracks meant a draught, and a draught meant the spreading of the fire.

"Now," said M. Paul, surveying the blocked passageway, "that is the best we can do—with wood. We must stop these cracks with something else. What did you wear?" He glanced at the chair where Alice had thrown her things. "A white cloak and a straw hat with a white veil and a black velvet ribbon. Tear off the ribbon and—we can't stand on ceremony. Here are my coat and vest. Rip them into strips and—Great God! There's the smoke now!"

As he spoke, a thin grayish feather curled out between two of the upper logs and floated away, another came below it, then another, each widening and strengthening as it came. Somewhere, perhaps in his sumptuous library, De Heidelmann-Bruck had pressed an electric button and, under the logs piled in the large chamber, deadly sparks had jumped in the waiting tinder; the crisis had come, the fire was burning, they were prisoners in a huge, slowly heating oven stacked with tons of dry wood.

"Hurry, my child," urged Coquenil, and working madly with a piece of stick that he had wrenched from one of the logs, he met each feather of smoke with a strip of cloth, stuffing the cracks with shreds of garments, with Alice's veil and hat ribbon, with the lining of his coat, then with the body of it, with the waist of her dress, with his socks, with her stockings, and still the smoke came through.

"We must stop this," he cried, and tearing the shirt from his shoulders, he ripped it into fragments and wedged these tight between the logs. The smoke seemed to come more slowly, but—it came.

"We must have more cloth," he said gravely. "It's our only chance, little friend. I'll put out the candle! There! Let me have—whatever you can and—be quick!"

Again he worked with frantic haste, stuffing in the last shreds and rags that could be spared from their bodies, whenever a dull glow from the other side revealed a crack in the barricade. For agonized moments there was no sound in that tomblike chamber save Alice's quick breathing and the shrieking tear of garments, and the ramming thud of the stick as Coquenil wedged cloth into crannies of the logs.

"There," he panted, "that's the best we can do. Now it's up to God!"

For a moment it seemed as if this rough prayer had been answered. There were no more points in the barricade that showed a glow beyond and to Coquenil, searching along the logs in the darkness by the sense of smell, there was no sign of smoke coming through.

"I believe we have stopped the draught," he said cheerfully; "as a final touch I'll hang that cloak of yours over the whole thing," and, very carefully, he tucked the white garment over the topmost logs and then at the sides so that it covered most of the barricade.

"You understand that a fire cannot burn without air," he explained, "and it must be air that comes in from below to replace the hot air that rises. Now I couldn't find any openings in that large room except two little ventilators near the ceiling, so if that fire is going to burn, it must get air from this room."

"Where does this room get its air from?" asked Alice.

Coquenil thought a moment. "It gets a lot under that iron door, and—there must be ventilating shafts besides. Anyhow, the point is, if we have blocked this passage between the rooms we have stopped the fire from turning, or, anyhow, from burning enough to do us any harm. You see these logs are quite cold. Feel them."

Alice groped forward in the darkness toward the barricade and, as she touched the logs, her bare arm touched Coquenil's bare arm.

Suddenly a faint sound broke the stillness and the detective started violently. He was in such a state of nervous tension that he would have started at the rustle of a leaf.

"Hark! What is that?"

It was a low humming sound that presently grew stronger, and then sang on steadily like a buzzing wheel.

"It's over here," said Coquenil, moving toward the door. "No, it's here!" He turned to the right and stood still, listening. "It's under the floor!" He bent down and listened again. "It's overhead! It's nowhere and—everywhere! What is it?"

As he moved about in perplexity it seemed to him that he felt a current of air. He put one hand in it, then the other hand, then he turned his face to it; there certainly was a current of air.

"Alice, come here!" he called. "Stand where I am! That's right. Now put out your hand! Do you feel anything?"

"I feel a draught," she answered.

"There's no doubt about it," he muttered, "but—how can there be a draught here?"

As he spoke the humming sound strengthened and with it the draught blew stronger.

"Merciful God!" cried Coquenil in a flash of understanding, "it's a blower!"

"A blower?" repeated the girl.

M. Paul turned his face upward and listened attentively. "No doubt of it! It's sucking through an air shaft—up there—in the ceiling."

"I—I don't understand."

"He's forcing a draught from that room to this one. He has started a blower, I tell you, and——"

"What is a blower?" put in Alice.

At her frightened tone Coquenil calmed himself and answered gently: "It's like a big electric fan, it's drawing air out of this room very fast, with a powerful suction, and I'm afraid—unless——"

Just then there came a sharp pop followed by a hissing noise as if some one were breathing in air through shut teeth.

"There goes the first one! Come over here!" He bent toward the logs, searching for something. "Ah, here it is! Do you feel the air blowing through toward us? The blower has sucked out one of our cloth plugs. There goes another!" he said, as the popping sound was repeated. "And another! It's all off with our barricade, little girl!"

"You—you mean the fire will come through now?" she gasped. He could hear her teeth chattering and feel her whole body shaking in terror.

Coquenil did not answer. He was looking through one of the open cracks, studying the dull glow beyond, and noting the hot breath that came through. What could he do? The fire was gaining with every second, the whirling blower was literally dragging the flames toward them through the dry wood pile. Already the heat was increasing, it would soon be unbearable; at this rate their hold on life was a matter of minutes.

"The fire may come through—a little," he answered comfortingly, "but I—I'll fix it so you will be—all right. Come! We'll build another barricade. You know wood is a bad conductor of heat, and—if you have wood all about you and—over you, why, the fire can't burn you."

"Oh!" said Alice.

"We'll go over to this door as far from the passageway as we can get. Now bring me logs from that side pile! That's right!"

He glanced at the old barricade and saw, with a shudder, that it was already pierced with countless open cracks that showed the angry fire beyond. And through these cracks great volumes of smoke were pouring.

Fortunately, most of this smoke, especially at first, was borne away upward by the blower's suction, and for some minutes Alice was able to help Coquenil with the new barricade. They built this directly in front of the iron door, with only space enough between it and the door to allow them to crouch behind it; they made it about five feet long and three feet high. Coquenil would have made it higher, but there was no time; indeed, he had to do the last part of the work alone, for Alice sank back overcome by the smoke.

"Lie down there," he directed. "Stretch right out behind the logs and keep, your mouth close to the floor and as near as you can to the crack under the door. You'll have plenty of cool, sweet air. See? That's right. Now I'll fix a roof over this thing and pretty soon, if it gets uncomfortable up here, I'll crawl in beside you. It's better not to look at the silly old barricade. Just shut your eyes and—rest. Understand little friend?"

"Ye-es," she murmured faintly, and with sinking heart, he realized that already she was drifting toward unconsciousness. Ah, well, perhaps that was the best thing!

He looked down at the fair young face and thought of her lover languishing in prison. What a wretched fate theirs had been! What sufferings they had borne! What injustice! And now this end to their dream of happiness!

He turned to his work. He would guard her while life and strength remained, and he wondered idly, as he braced the overhead logs against the iron door, how many more minutes of life this shelter would give them. Why take so much pains for so paltry a result?

He turned toward the barricade and saw that the flames were licking their way through the wall of logs, shooting and curling their hungry red tongues through many openings. The heat was becoming unbearable. Well, they were at the last trench now, he was surprised at the clearness and calmness of his mind. Death did not seem such a serious thing after all!

Coquenil crawled in behind the shelter of logs and crouched down beside the girl. She was quite unconscious now, but was breathing peacefully, smilingly, with face flushed and red lips parted. The glorious masses of her reddish hair were spread over the girls white shoulders, and it seemed to M. Paul that he had never seen so beautiful a picture of youth and innocence.

Suddenly there was a crumbling of logs at the passageway and the chamber became light as day while a blast of heat swept over them. Coquenil looked out around the end of the shelter and saw flames a yard long shooting toward them through widening breaches in the logs. And a steady roar began. It was nearly over now, although close to the floor the air was still good.

He reflected that, with the enormous amount of wood here, this fire would rage hotter and hotter for hours until the stones themselves would be red hot or white hot and—there would be nothing left when it all was over, absolutely nothing left but ashes. No one would ever know their fate.

Then he thought of his mother. He wished he might have sent her a line—still she would know that her boy had fallen in a good cause, as his father had fallen. He needn't worry about his mother—she would know.

Now another log crumbled with a sharp crackling. Alice stirred uneasily and opened her eyes. Then she sat up quickly, and there was something in her face Coquenil had never seen there, something he had never seen in any face.

"Willie, you naughty, naughty boy!" she cried. "You have taken my beautiful dolly. Poor little Esmeralda! You threw her up on that shelf, Willie; yes, you did."

Then, before Coquenil could prevent it, she slipped out from behind the shelter and stood up in the fire-bound chamber.

"Come back!" he cried, reaching after her, but the girl evaded him.

"There it is, on that shelf," she went on positively, and, following her finger, Coquenil saw, what he had not noticed before, a massive stone shelf jutting out from the wall just over the wood pile. "You must get my dolly," she ordered.

"Certainly, I'll get it," said M. Paul soothingly. "Come back here and—I'll get your dolly."

She stamped her foot in displeasure. "Not at all; I don't like this place. It's a hot, nasty place and—come"—she caught Coquenil's hand—"we'll go out where the fairies are. That's a much nicer place to play, Willie."

Here there came to M. Paul an urging of mysterious guidance, as if an inward voice had spoken to him and said that God was trying to save them, that He had put wisdom in this girl's mouth and that he must listen.

"All right," he said, "we'll go and play where the fairies are, but—how do we get there?"

"Through the door under the shelf. You know perfectly well, Willie!"

"Yes," he agreed, "I know about the door, but—I forget how to get it open."

"Silly!" She stamped her foot again. "You push on that stone thing under the shelf."

Shading his eyes against the glare, Coquenil looked at the shelf and saw that it was supported by two stone brackets.

"You mean the thing that holds the shelf up?"

"Yes, you must press it."

"But there are two things that hold the shelf up. Is it the one on this side that you press or the one on that side?"

"Dear me, what an aggravating boy! It's the one this side, of course."

"Good! You lie down now and I'll have it open in a jiffy."

He started to force Alice behind the shelter, for the heat was actually blistering the skin, but to his surprise he found her suddenly limp in his arms. Having spoken these strange words of wisdom or of folly, she had gone back into unconsciousness.

Coquenil believed that they were words of wisdom, and without a moment's hesitation, he acted on that belief. The wall underneath the shelf was half covered with piled-up logs and these must be removed; which meant that he must work there for several minutes with the fierce breath of the fire hissing over him.

It was the work of a madman, or of one inspired. Three times Coquenil fell to the floor, gasping for breath, blinded by the flames that were roaring all about him, poisoned by deadly fumes. The skin on his arms and neck was hanging away in shreds, the pain was unbearable, yet he bore it, the task was impossible, yet he did it.

At last the space under the shelf was cleared, and staggering, blackened, blinded, yet believing, Paul Coquenil stumbled forward and seized the left-hand bracket in his two bruised hands and pressed it with all his might.

Instantly a door underneath, cunningly hidden in the wall, yawned open on a square black passage.

"It's here that the fairies play," muttered M. Paul, "and it's a mighty good place for us!"

With a bound he was back at the shelter and had Alice in his arms, smiling again, as she slept—as she dreamed. And a moment later he had carried her safely through flames that actually singed her hair, and laid her tenderly in the cool passage. And beside her he laid the baron's diary!



Then he went back to close the door. It was high time, for the last obstructing logs of the old barricade had fallen and the chamber was a seething mass of fire.

"I feel pretty rotten," reflected Coquenil with a whimsical smile. "My hair is burned off and my eyebrows are gone and about half my skin, but—I guess I'll take a chance on a burn or two more and rescue Esmeralda!"

Whereupon he reached up inside that fiery furnace and, groping over the hot stone shelf, brought down a scorched and battered and dust-covered little figure that had lain there for many years.

It was the lost dolly!



CHAPTER XXX

MRS. LLOYD KITTREDGE

The details of the hours that followed remained blurred memories in the minds of Alice and her rescuer. There was, first, a period of utter blank when Coquenil, overcome by the violence of his struggle and the agony of his burns, fell unconscious near the unconscious girl. How long they lay thus in the dark playground of the fairies, so near the raging fire, yet safe from it, was never known exactly; nor how long they wandered afterwards through a strange subterranean region of passages and cross passages, that widened and narrowed, that ascended and descended, that were sometimes smooth under foot, but oftener blocked with rough stones and always black as night. The fairies must have been sorry at their plight, for, indeed, it was a pitiable one; bruised, blistered, covered with grime and with little else, they stumbled on aimlessly, cutting their bare feet, falling often in sheer weakness, and lying for minutes where they fell before they could summon strength to stumble on. Surely no more pathetic pair than these two ever braved the mazes of the Paris catacombs!

Perhaps the fairies finally felt that the odds were too great against them, and somehow led them to safety. At any rate, through the ghastly horror of darkness and weakness and pain there presently came hope—flickering torches in the distance, then faint voices and the presence of friends, some workingmen, occupied with drainage repairs, who produced stimulants and rough garments and showed them the way to the upper world, to the blessed sunshine.

Then it was a matter of temporary relief at the nearest pharmacy, of waiting until Pougeot, summoned by telephone, could arrive with all haste in an automobile.

An hour later M. Paul and Alice were in clean, cool beds at a private hospital near the commissary's house, with nurses and doctors bending over them. And on a chair beside the girl, battered and blackened, sat Esmeralda, while under the detective's pillow was the scorched but unharmed diary of De Heidelmann-Bruck!

"Both cases serious," was the head doctor's grave judgment. "The man is frightfully burned. The girl's injuries are not so bad, but she is suffering from shock. We'll know more in twenty-four hours." Then, turning to Pougeot: "Oh, he insists on seeing you alone. Only a minute mind!"

With a thrill of emotion the commissary entered the silent, darkened room where his friend lay, swathed in bandages and supported on a water bed to lessen the pain.

"It's all right Paul," said M. Pougeot, "I've just talked with the doctor."

"Thanks, Lucien," answered a weak voice in the white bundle. "I'm going to pull through—I've got to, but—if anything should go wrong, I want you to have the main points. Come nearer."

The commissary motioned to the nurse, who withdrew. Then he bent close to the injured man and listened intently while Coquenil, speaking with an effort and with frequent pauses, related briefly what had happened.

"God in heaven!" muttered Pougeot. "He'll pay for this!"

"Yes, I—I think he'll pay for it, but—Lucien, do nothing until I am able to decide things with you. Say nothing to anyone, not even to the doctor. And don't give our names."

"No, no, I'll see to that."

"The girl mustn't talk, tell her she—mustn't talk. And—Lucien?"

"Yes?"

"She may be delirious—I may be delirious, I feel queer—now. You must—make sure of these—nurses."

"Yes, Paul, I will."

"And—watch the girl! Something has happened to—her mind. She's forgotten or—remembered! Get the best specialist in Paris and—get Duprat. Do whatever they advise—no matter what it costs. Everything depends on—her."

"I'll do exactly as you say, old friend," whispered the other. Then, at a warning signal from the nurse: "Don't worry now. Just rest and get well." He rose to go. "Until to-morrow, Paul."

The sick man's reply was only a faint murmur, and Pougeot stole softly out of the room, turning at the door for an anxious glance toward the white bed.

This was the first of many visits to the hospital by the devoted commissary and of many anxious hours at that distressed bedside. Before midnight Coquenil was in raging delirium with a temperature of one hundred and five, and the next morning, when Pougeot called, the doctor looked grave. They were in for a siege of brain fever with erysipelas to be fought off, if possible.

Poor Coquenil! His body was in torture and his mind in greater torture. Over and over again, those days, he lived through his struggle with the fire, he rescued Alice, he played with the fairies, he went back after the doll. Over and over again!

And when the fever fell and his mind grew calm, there followed a period of nervous exhaustion when his stomach refused to do its work, when his heart, for nothing at all, would leap into fits of violent beating. Pougeot could not even see him now, and the doctor would make no promise as to how soon it would be safe to mention the case to him. Perhaps not for weeks!

For weeks! And, meantime, Lloyd Kittredge had been placed on trial for the murder of Martinez and the evidence seemed overwhelmingly against him; in fact, the general opinion was that the young American would be found guilty.

What should the commissary do?

For a week the trial dragged slowly with various delays and adjournments, during which time, to Pougeot's delight, Coquenil began to mend rapidly. The doctor assured the commissary that in a few days he should have a serious talk with the patient. A few days! Unfortunately, the trial began to march along during these days—they dispose of murder cases expeditiously in France—and, to make matters worse, Coquenil suffered a relapse, so that the doctor was forced to retract his promise.

What should the commissary do?

In this emergency Coquenil himself came unexpectedly to Pougeot's relief; instead of the apathy or indifference he had shown for days, he suddenly developed his old keen interest in the case, and one morning insisted on knowing how things were going and what the prospects were. In vain doctor and nurse objected and reasoned; the patient only insisted the more strongly, he wished to have a talk with M. Pougeot at once. And, as the danger of opposing him was felt to be greater than that of yielding, it resulted that M. Paul had his way, Pougeot came to his bedside and stayed an hour—two hours, until the doctor absolutely ordered him away; but, after luncheon, the detective took the bit in his teeth and told the doctor plainly that, with or without permission, he was going to do his work. He had learned things that he should have known long ago and there was not an hour to lose. A man's life was at stake, and—his stomach, his nerves, his heart, and his other organs might do what they pleased, he proposed to save that life.

Before this uncompromising attitude the doctor could only bow gracefully, and when he was told by Pougeot (in strictest confidence) that this gaunt and irascible patient, whom he had known as M. Martin, was none other than the celebrated Paul Coquenil, he comforted himself with the thought that, after all, a resolute mind can often do wonders with a weak body.

It was a delightful September afternoon, with a brisk snap in the air and floods of sunshine. Since early morning the streets about the Palais de Justice had been, blocked with carriages and automobiles, and the courtyard with clamorous crowds eager to witness the final scene in this celebrated murder trial. The case would certainly go to the jury before night. The last pleas would be made, the judge's grave words would be spoken, and twelve solemn citizens would march out with the fate of this cheerful young American in their hands. It was well worth seeing, and all Paris that could get tickets, especially the American Colony, was there to see it. Pussy Wilmott, in a most fetching gown, with her hair done ravishingly, sat near the front and never took her eyes off the prisoner.

In spite of all that he had been through and all that he was facing, Kittredge looked surprisingly well. A little pale, perhaps, but game to the end, and ready always with his good-natured smile. All the ladies liked him. He had such nice teeth and such well-kept hands! A murderer with those kind, jolly eyes? Never in the world! they vowed, and smiled and stared their encouragement.

A close observer would have noticed, however, that Lloyd's eyes were anxious as they swept the spread of faces before him; they were searching, searching for one face that they could not find. Where was Alice? Why had she sent him no word? Was she ill? Had any harm befallen her? Where was Alice?

So absorbed was Kittredge in these reflections that he scarcely heard the thundering denunciations hurled at him by the public prosecutor in his fierce and final demand that blood be the price of blood and that the extreme penalty of the law be meted out to this young monster of wickedness and dissimulation.

Nor did Lloyd notice the stir when one of the court attendants made way through the crush for a distinguished-looking man, evidently a person of particular importance, who was given a chair on the platform occupied by the three black-robed judges.

"The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck!" whispered eager tongues, and straightway the awe-inspiring name was passed from mouth to mouth. The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck! He had dropped in in a dilettante spirit to hear the spirited debate, and the judges were greatly honored.

Alas for the baron! It was surely some sinister prompting that brought him here to-day, so coldly complacent as he nodded to the presiding judge, so quietly indifferent as he glanced at the prisoner through his single eyeglass. The gods had given Coquenil a spectacular setting for his triumph!

And now, suddenly, the blow fell. As the prosecuting officer soared along in his oratorial flight, a note was passed unobtrusively to the presiding judge, a modest little note folded on itself without even an envelope to hold it. For several minutes the note lay unnoticed; then the judge, with careless eye, glanced over it; then he started, frowned, and his quick rereading showed that a spark of something had flashed from that scrap of paper.

The presiding judge leaned quickly toward his associate on the right and whispered earnestly, then toward his associate on the left, and, one after another, the three magistrates studied this startling communication, nodding learned heads and lowering judicial eyebrows. The public prosecutor blazed through his peroration to an inattentive bench.