. I saw his face
distinctly."

"Are you sure it was he? I don't doubt you, M. Groener, but I'm a sort of
official here and this is a serious charge, so I ask if you are _sure_ it
was Father Anselm?".

"I'm absolutely sure it was Father Anselm," answered the wood carver
positively. He paused a moment while the detective wondered what was the
meaning of this extraordinary statement. Why was the man giving him these
details about Alice, and how much of them was true? Did Groener know he was
talking to Paul Coquenil? If so, he knew that Coquenil must know he was
lying about Father Anselm. Then why say such a thing? What was his game?

[Illustration: "'You mean that Father Anselm helped her to run away?'
gasped Matthieu."]

"Have another glass?" asked the wood carver. "Or shall we go on?"

"Go on--where?"

"Oh, of course, you don't know my plan. I will tell you. You see, I must
find Alice, I must try to save her from this folly, for her mother's sake.
Well, I know how to find her."

He spoke so earnestly and straightforwardly that Coquenil began to think
Groener had really been deceived by the Matthieu disguise. After all, why
not? Tignol had been deceived by it.

"How will you find her?"

"I'll tell you as we drive along. We'll take a cab and--you won't leave me,
M. Matthieu?" he said anxiously.

Coquenil tried to soften the grimness of his smile. "No, M. Groener, I
won't leave you."

"Good! Now then!" He threw down some money for the drinks, then he hailed a
passing carriage.

"Rue Tronchet, near the Place de la Madeleine," he directed, and as they
rolled away, he added: "Stop at the nearest telegraph office."

The adventure was taking a new turn. Groener, evidently, had some definite
plan which he hoped to carry out. Coquenil felt for cigarettes in his coat
pocket and his hand touched the friendly barrel of a revolver. Then he
glanced back and saw the big automobile, which had been waiting for hours,
trailing discreetly behind with Tignol (no longer a priest) and two sturdy
fellows, making four men with the chauffeur, all ready to rush up for
attack or defense at the lift of his hand. There must be some miraculous
interposition if this man beside him, this baby-faced wood carver, was to
get away now as he did that night on the Champs Elysees.

"You'll be paying for that left-handed punch, old boy, before very long,"
said Coquenil to himself.

"Now," resumed Groener, as the cab turned into a quiet street