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Updated: June 28, 2025
It may have been that this horse was not slow enough, for forty minutes later Coquenil's frown was still unrelaxed when they drew up at the Villa Montmorency, really a collection of villas, some dozens of them, in a private park near the Bois de Boulogne, each villa a garden within a garden, and the whole surrounded by a great stone wall that shuts out noises and intrusions.
"And the boots?" "He must have taken the boots with him. The shrimp peeped out and saw him go back into this room F, which has been empty for several weeks. Then he heard steps on the stairs and the slam of the heavy street door. The man was gone." Coquenil's face grew somber. "It was the assassin," he said; "there's no doubt about it." "Mightn't it have been some one he sent?" suggested Pougeot.
I'm going to take the chance, and," he nodded confidently, "between you and me, it isn't such a slim chance, either." 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.
Altogether it was a pleasing picture, and Coquenil's interest was heightened when he overheard a passing couple say that these were the guests of no less a person than the Duke of Montreuil, whose lavish entertainments were the talk of Paris. There he was, on the break, this favorite of fortune! What a brilliant figure of a man!
It was not until after vespers that Alice was able to leave Notre-Dame and start for the Villa Montmorency in fact, it was nearly five when, with mingled feelings of confidence and shrinking, she opened the iron gate in the ivy-covered wall of Coquenil's house and advanced down the neat walk between the double hedges to the solid gray mass of the villa, at once dignified and cheerful.
Such was the information M. Paul had been able to gather from swift and special police sources when he presented himself at the Wilmott hôtel, about luncheon time on Monday. Addison was just starting with some friends for a run down to Fontainebleau in his new Panhard, and he listened impatiently to Coquenil's explanation that he had come in regard to some English bank notes recently paid to Mr.
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!"
It was true, Coquenil's look had deepened into one of somber reminiscence. "You mean the murders in the Rue Montaigne?" "Pre-cisely." "Pooh! A foolish fancy! How many red sunsets have there been since we found those two poor women stretched out in their white-and-gold salon? Well, I must get on. Come to-night at nine. There will be news for you." "News for me," echoed the old man.
Then yielding to his growing curiosity: "Have you found out much?" Coquenil's eyes twinkled. "You're dying to know what I've been doing these last five days, eh?" "Nothing of the sort," said the old man testily. "If you want to leave me in the dark, all right, only if I'm to help in the work " "Of course, of course," broke in the other good-naturedly.
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