nd had a talk with the
chief. He knew me by reputation, and a note that I brought from Pougeot
helped, and--well, an hour later that photographer was ready to tell me the
innermost secrets of his soul."

"Eh, eh, eh!" laughed Tignol. "And what did he tell you?"

"He told me he made this picture of Alice and the widow _only six weeks
ago_."

"Six weeks ago!" stared the other. "But the widow told you it was taken
five years ago."

"Exactly!"

"Besides, Alice wasn't in Brussels six weeks ago, was she?"

"Of course not; the picture was a fake, made from a genuine one of Alice
and a lady, perhaps her mother. This photographer had blotted out the lady
and printed in the widow without changing the pose. It's a simple trick in
photography."

"You saw the genuine picture?"

"Of course--that is, I saw a reproduction of it which the photographer made
on his own account. He suspected some crooked work, and he didn't like the
man who gave him the order."

"You mean the wood carver?"

Coquenil shrugged his shoulders. "Call him a wood carver, call him what you
like. He didn't go to the photographer in his wood-carver disguise, he
went as a gentleman in a great hurry, and willing to pay any price for the
work."

Tignol twisted the long ends of his black mustache reflectively. "He was
covering his tracks in advance?"

"Evidently."

"And the smooth young widow lied?"

"Lied?" snapped the detective savagely. "I should say she did. She lied
about this, and lied about the whole affair. So did the men at the shop. It
was manufactured testimony, bought and paid for, and a manufactured
picture."

"Then," cried Tignol excitedly, "then Groener is _not_ a wood carver?"

"He may be a wood carver, but he's a great deal more, he--he--" Coquenil
hesitated, and then, with eyes blazing and nostrils dilating, he burst out:
"If I know anything about my business, he's the man who gave me that
left-handed jolt under the heart, he's the man who choked your shrimp
photographer, he's the man who killed Martinez!"

"Name of a green dog!" muttered Tignol. "Is that true, or--or do you only
_know_ it?"

"It's true _because_ I know it," answered Coquenil. "See here, I'll bet you
a good dinner against a box of those vile cigarettes you smoke that this
man who calls himself Alice's cousin has the marks of my teeth on the calf
of one of his legs--I forget which leg it is."

"Taken!" said Tignol, and then, with sudden gravity: "But if this is