mblance between the two women. For some moments he stood
before the fine, kindly face, and then he said aloud, as if speaking to
her: "It looks like a hard fight, little mother, but I'm not afraid." And
almost as he spoke, which seemed like a good omen, there came a clang at
the iron gate in the garden and the sound of quick, crunching steps on the
gravel walk. M. Pougeot had arrived.

M. Lucien Pougeot was one of the eighty police commissaries who, each in
his own quarter, oversee the moral washing of Paris's dirty linen. A
commissary of police is first of all a magistrate, but, unless he is a
fool, he soon becomes a profound student of human nature, for he sees all
sides of life in the great gay capital, especially the darker sides. He
knows the sins of his fellow men and women, their follies and hypocrisies,
he receives incredible confessions, he is constantly summoned to the scenes
of revolting crime. Nothing, _absolutely nothing_, surprises him, and he
has no illusions, yet he usually manages to keep a store of grim pity for
erring humanity. M. Pougeot was one of the most distinguished and
intelligent members of this interesting body. He was a devoted friend of
Paul Coquenil.

The newcomer was a middle-aged man of strong build and florid face, with a
brush of thick black hair. His quick-glancing eyes were at once cold and
kind, but the kindness had something terrifying in it, like the politeness
of an executioner. As the two men stood together they presented absolutely
opposite types: Coquenil, taller, younger, deep-eyed, spare of build, with
a certain serious reserve very different from the commissary's outspoken
directness. M. Pougeot prided himself on reading men's thoughts, but he
used to say that he could not even imagine what Coquenil was thinking or
fathom the depths of a nature that blended the eagerness of a child with
the austerity of a prophet.

"Well," remarked the commissary when they were settled in their chairs, "I
suppose it's the Rio Janeiro thing? Some parting instructions, eh?" And he
turned to light a cigar.

Coquenil shook his head.

"When do you sail?"

"I'm not sailing."

"Wha-at?"

For once in his life M. Pougeot was surprised. He knew all about this
foreign offer, with its extraordinary money advantages; he had rejoiced in
his friend's good fortune after two unhappy years, and now--now Coquenil
informed him calmly that he was not sailing.

"I have just made a decision, the most i