s certain that I will try to solve it, whether on the force or
off it."

"Well answered!" approved the other; he was coming gradually under the
spell of Coquenil's conviction. "And when--when do you think this crime may
be committed?"

"Who can say? There must be great urgency to account for their insisting
that I sail to-morrow. Ah, you didn't know that? Yes, even now, at this
very moment, I am supposed to be on the steamer train, for the boat goes
out early in the morning _before the Paris papers can reach Cherbourg_."

M. Pougeot started up, his eyes widening. "What!" he cried. "You mean
that--that possibly--to-_night?_"

As he spoke a sudden flash of light came in through the garden window,
followed by a resounding peal of thunder. The brilliant sunset had been
followed by a violent storm.

Coquenil paid no heed to this, but answered quietly: "I mean that a great
fight is ahead, and I shall be in it. Somebody is playing for enormous
stakes, somebody who disposes of fortune and power and will stop at
_nothing_, somebody who will certainly crush me unless I crush him. It will
be a great case, Lucien, my greatest case, perhaps my last case." He
stopped and looked intently at his mother's picture, while his lips moved
inaudibly.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the commissary. "You've cast a spell over me. Come, come,
Paul, it may be only a fancy!"

But Coquenil sat still, his eyes fixed on his mother's face. And then came
one of the strange coincidences of this extraordinary case. On the silence
of this room, with its tension of overwrought emotion, broke the sharp
summons of the telephone.

"My God!" shivered the commissary. "What is that?" Both men sat
motionless, their eyes fixed on the ominous instrument.

Again came the call, this time more strident and commanding. M. Pougeot
aroused himself with an effort. "We're acting like children," he muttered.
"It's nothing. I told them at the office to ring me up about nine." And he
put the receiver to his ear. "Yes, this is M. Pougeot.... What?... The
Ansonia?... You say he's shot?... In a private dining room?... Dead?...
_Quel malheur!_"... Then he gave quick orders: "Send Papa Tignol over with
a doctor and three or four _agents_. Close the restaurant. Don't let anyone
go in or out. Don't let anyone leave the banquet room. I'll be there in
twenty minutes. Good-by."

He put the receiver down, and turning, white-faced, said to his friend:
"_It has happened_."

Coquenil glanc