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"Why," answered Tignol slowly, while his shrewd eyes twinkled, "I I'd have cussed a little and had a couple of drinks and come back to Paris." Coquenil sat silent frowning. "I wasn't much better. After that first day I was ready to drop the thing, I admit it, only I went for a walk that night and there's a lot in walking.
No doubt Gibelin had heard the truth and was gloating over it! "How do you know it is the woman's photograph?" questioned the judge. "I'll tell you," replied Gibelin, delighted with his sensation. "It's quite a story. I suppose you know that when this woman slipped out of the Ansonia, she drove directly to the house where we arrested the American. You knew that?" He turned to Coquenil. "No."
There had been bitter moments in the great detective's life, but this made up for them; there had been proud, intoxicating moments, but this surpassed them. Coquenil, too, had a new sensation! When at length the tumult was stilled and the panting, sobbing audience had settled back in their seats, the presiding judge, lenient at heart to the disorder, proceeded gravely with his examination.
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.
Coquenil moved on past palace guards in bright apparel, past sad-faced witnesses and brisk lawyers of the court in black robes with amusing white bibs at their throats. And presently he entered Judge Hauteville's private room, where an amiable greffier asked him to sit down until the judge should arrive.
"That will be Wednesday night and Thursday night of next week?" "Yes." "Good! Now I'll show you how you're going to make this money. I want François to have a little vacation; he looks tired. I want him to go into the country on Tuesday and stay until Friday." "And his work? Who will do his work?" Coquenil smiled quietly and tapped his breast. "You?" "I will take François's place.
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.
"Say the person you represent," interrupted Coquenil. "A criminal of this type acts alone." "As you like," answered the other carelessly. "Then the person I represent wishes you to withdraw from this case."
Gibelin chuckled harshly. "I have kept the most important thing for the last. I'm afraid it will annoy my distinguished colleague even more than the loss of the leather fragments." "Don't waste your sympathy," retorted Coquenil. Gibelin gave a little snort of defiance. "I certainly won't. I only mean that your début in this case hasn't been exactly ha, ha! well, not exactly brilliant."
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.
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