a sudden
thought. "After all, what I do is not important, but I'll tell you what
Gibelin will do, and that _is_ important, _he will let this American go to
trial and be found guilty for want of evidence that would save him_."

"Not if I can help it," replied Hauteville, ruffled at this reflection on
his judicial guidance of the investigation.

"No offense," said M. Paul, "but this is a case where even as able a judge
as yourself must have special assistance and--Gibelin couldn't find the
truth in a thousand years. Do _you_ think he's fit to handle this case?"

"Officially I have no opinion," answered Hauteville guardedly, "but I don't
mind telling you personally that I--I'm sorry to lose you."

"Thanks," said M. Paul. "I think I'll have a word with the chief."

In the outer office Coquenil learned that M. Simon was just then in
conference with one of the other judges and for some minutes he walked
slowly up and down the long corridor, smiling bitterly, until presently
one of the doors opened and the chief came out followed by a black bearded
judge, who was bidding him obsequious farewell.

As M. Simon moved away briskly, his eye fell on the waiting detective, and
his genial face clouded.

"Ah, Coquenil," he said, and with a kindly movement he took M. Paul's arm
in his. "I want a word with you--over here," and he led the way to a wide
window space. "I'm sorry about this business."

"Sorry?" exclaimed M. Paul. "So is Hauteville sorry, but--if you're sorry,
why did you let the thing happen?"

"Not so loud," cautioned M. Simon. "My dear fellow, I assure you I couldn't
help it, I had nothing to do with it."

Coquenil stared at him incredulously. "Aren't you chief of the detective
bureau?"

"Yes," answered the other in a low tone, "but the order came from--from
higher up."

"You mean from the _prefet de police?_"

M. Simon laid a warning finger on his lips. "This is in strictest
confidence, the order came through his office, but I don't believe the
_prefet_ issued it personally. _It came from higher up!_"

"From higher up!" repeated M. Paul, and his thoughts flashed back to that
sinister meeting on the Champs Elysees, to that harsh voice and flaunting
defiance.

"He said he had power, that left-handed devil," muttered the detective, "he
said he had the biggest kind of power, and--I guess he has."

CHAPTER XVIII

A LONG LITTLE FINGER

Coquenil kept his appointment that night at the Three Wise Men