nswered, Pougeot, "but, my
dear Paul, aren't you a little on your nerves to-night; oughtn't you to
think the whole matter over before deciding?"

"That's right," agreed Tignol.

"What is there to think about?" said Coquenil. "If you've got anything to
say, either of you, say it now. Run on through the _bois_," he directed the
chauffeur, "and then out on the St. Cloud road. This air is doing me a lot
of good," he added, drawing in deep breaths.

For some minutes they sat silent, speeding along through the Bois de
Boulogne, dimly beautiful under a crescent moon, on past crowded
restaurants with red-clad musicians on the terraces, on past the silent
lake and then through narrow and deserted roads until they had crossed the
great park and emerged upon the high-way.

"Where are we going, anyway?" inquired Tignol.

"For a little ride, for a little change," sighed M. Paul.

"Come, come," urged Pougeot, "you are giving way too much. Now listen to
me."

Then, clearly and concisely, the commissary went over the situation,
considering his friend's problem from various points of view; and so
absorbed was he in fairly setting forth the advantages and disadvantages of
the Rio Janeiro position that he did not observe Coquenil's utter
indifference to what he was saying. But Papa Tignol saw this, and
gradually, as he watched the detective with his shrewd little eyes, it
dawned upon the old man that they were not speeding along here in the
night, a dozen miles out of Paris, simply for their health, but that
something special was preparing.

"What in the mischief is Coquenil up to?" wondered Tignol.

And presently, even Pougeot, in spite of his preoccupation, began to
realize that there was something peculiar about this night promenade, for
as they reached a crossroad, M. Paul ordered the chauffeur to turn into it
and go ahead as fast as he pleased. The chauffeur hesitated, muttered some
words of protest, and then obeyed.

"We are getting right out into wild country," remarked the commissary.

"Don't you like wild country?" laughed Coquenil. "I do." It was plain that
his spirits were reviving.

They ran along this rough way for several miles, and presently came to a
small house standing some distance back from the road.

"Stop here!" ordered the detective. "Now," he turned to Pougeot, "I shall
learn something that may fix my decision." Then, leaning forward to the
chauffeur, he said impressively: "Ten francs extra if you he