g to gain time? But why? How
could that serve him? What could he be waiting for?

As the detective puzzled over this there shot through his mind an idea for
a move against Groener's resistance, so simple, yet promising such dramatic
effectiveness that he turned quickly to Hauteville and said: "I _think_ it
might be as well to let him have some supper."

The judge nodded in acquiescence and directed the guard to take the
prisoner into the outer office and have something to eat brought in for
him.

"Well," he asked when they were alone, "what is it?"

Then, for several minutes Coquenil talked earnestly, convincingly, while
the magistrate listened.

"It ought not to take more than an hour or so to get the things here,"
concluded the detective, "and if I read the signs right, it will just about
finish him."

"Possibly, possibly," reflected the judge. "Anyhow it's worth trying," and
he gave the necessary orders to his clerk. "Let Tignol go," he directed.
"Tell him to wake the man up, if he's in bed, and not to mind what it
costs. Tell him to take an auto. Hold on, I'll speak to him myself."

The clerk waited respectfully at the door as the judge hurried out,
whereupon Coquenil, lighting a cigarette, moved to the open window and
stood there for a long time blowing contemplative smoke rings into the
quiet summer night.

CHAPTER XXV

THE MOVING PICTURE

"Are you feeling better?" asked the judge an hour later when the accused
was led back.

"Yes," answered Groener with recovered self-possession, and again the
detective noticed that he glanced anxiously at the clock. It was a quarter
past eleven.

"We will have the visual test now," said Hauteville; "we must go to another
room. Take the prisoner to Dr. Duprat's laboratory," he directed the guard.

Passing down the wide staircase, strangely silent now, they entered a long
narrow passageway leading to a remote wing of the Palais de Justice. First
went the guard with Groener close beside him, then twenty paces, behind
came M. Paul and the magistrate and last came the weary clerk with Maitre
Cure. Their footsteps, echoed ominously along the stone floor, their
shadows danced fantastically before them and behind them under gas jets
that flared through the tunnel.

"I hope this goes off well," whispered the judge uneasily. "You don't think
they have forgotten anything?"

"Trust Papa Tignol to obey orders," replied Coquenil. "Ah!" he started and
gripped his co