ented from doing so.
How he must have cursed that little photographer!

As to the assassin's personal appearance, there was a startling difference
of opinion between the hotel doorkeeper and the _garcon_, both of whom saw
him and spoke to him. The one declared he had light hair and a beard, the
other that he had dark hair and no beard; the one thought he was a
Frenchman, the other was sure he was a foreigner. Evidently the man was
disguised either coming or going, so this testimony was practically
worthless.

Despite all this, Coquenil was pleased and confident as he rang the night
bell at the archbishop's house beside the cathedral, for he had one
precious clew, he had the indication of this extraordinarily long little
finger, and he did not believe that in all France there were two men with
hands like that. And he knew there was one such man, for Alice had seen
him. Where had she seen him? She said she had often noticed his long little
finger, so she must often have been close enough to him to observe such a
small peculiarity. But Alice went about very little, she had few friends,
and all of them must be known to the Bonnetons. It ought to be easy to get
from the sacristan this information which the girl herself might withhold.
Hence this nocturnal visit to Notre Dame--it was of the utmost importance
that Coquenil have an immediate talk with Papa Bonneton.

And presently, after a sleepy salutation from the archbishop's servant, and
a brief explanation, M. Paul was shown through a stone passageway that
connects the church with the house, and on pushing open a wide door covered
with red velvet, he found himself alone in Notre Dame, alone in utter
darkness save for a point of red light on the shadowy altar before the
Blessed Sacrament.

As he stood uncertain which way to turn, the detective heard a step and a
low growl, and peering among the arches of the choir he saw a lantern
advancing, then a figure holding the lantern, then another crouching figure
moving before the lantern. Then he recognized Caesar.

"Phee-et, phee-et!" he whistled softly, and with a start and a glad rush,
the dog came bounding to his master, while the sacristan stared in alarm.

"Good old Caesar! There, there!" murmured Coquenil, fondling the eager
head. "It's all right, Bonneton," and coming forward, he held out his hand
as the guardian lifted his lantern in suspicious scrutiny.

"M. Paul, upon my soul!" exclaimed the sacristan. "What are y