ith an enthralled expression, as if she
saw something there besides the masses of red and purple that crowned the
setting sun, something strange and terrifying. And in her agitation she
took the book and pencil from the bench, and nervously, almost
unconsciously wrote something on one of the fly leaves.

"Good-by, Alice," he said, holding out his hand.

"Good-by, Lloyd," she answered in a dull, tired voice, putting down the
book and giving him her own little hand.

As he turned to go he picked up the volume and his eye fell on the fly
leaf.

"Why," he started, "what is this?" He looked more closely at the words,
then sharply at her.

"I--I'm _so_ sorry," she stammered. "Have I spoiled your book?"

"Never mind the book, but--how did you come to write this?"

"I--I didn't notice what I wrote," she said, in confusion.

"Do you mean to say that you don't _know_ what you wrote?"

"I don't know at all," she replied with evident sincerity.

"It's the damnedest thing I ever heard of," he muttered. And then, with a
puzzled look: "See here, I guess I've been too previous. I'll cut out that
banquet to-night--that is, I'll show up for soup and fish, and then I'll
come to you. Do I get a smile now?"

"O Lloyd!" she murmured happily.

"I'll be there about nine."

"About nine," she repeated, and again her eyes turned anxiously to the
blood-red western sky.

CHAPTER II

COQUENIL'S GREATEST CASE

After leaving Notre-Dame, Paul Coquenil directed his steps toward the
prefecture of police, but halfway across the square he glanced back at the
church clock that shows its white face above the grinning gargoyles, and,
pausing, he stood a moment in deep thought.

"A quarter to seven," he reflected; then, turning to the right, he walked
quickly to a little wine shop with flowers in the windows, the Tavern of
the Three Wise Men, an interesting fragment of old-time Paris that offers
its cheery but battered hospitality under the very shadow of the great
cathedral.

"Ah, I thought so!" he muttered, as he recognized Papa Tignol at one of the
tables on the terrace. And approaching the old man, he said in a low tone:
"I want you."

Tignol looked up quickly from his glass, and his face lighted. "Eh, M. Paul
again!"

"I must see M. Pougeot," continued the detective. "It's important. Go to
his office. If he isn't there, go to his house. Anyhow, find him and tell
him to come to me _at once_. Hurry on; I'll pay for this."