er!
But for M. Paul they would never have caught the slippery devil, never! Ah,
what a triumph for M. Paul! He would have the whole department bowing down
to him now. And Gibelin! Eh, eh! Gibelin!

Tignol closed the iron gate carefully behind him and walked down the
graveled walk with as little crunching as possible. He had an idea that
Coquenil might still be sleeping and if anyone in Paris had earned a long
sleep it was Paul Coquenil.

To his surprise, however, the detective was not only up and dressed, but he
was on his knees in the study before a large leather bag into which he was
hastily throwing various garments brought down by the faithful Melanie,
whose joy at having her master home again was evidently clouded by this
prospect of an imminent departure.

"Ah, Papa Tignol!" said M. Paul as the old man entered, but there was no
heartiness in his tone. "Sit down, sit down."

Tignol sank back in one of the red-leather chairs and waited wonderingly.
This was not the buoyant reception he had expected.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked finally.

"Why--er--why, yes," nodded Coquenil, but he went on packing and did not
say what was wrong. And Tignol did not ask.

"Going away?" he ventured after a silence.

M. Paul shut the bag with a jerk and tightened the side straps, then he
threw himself wearily into a chair.

"Yes, I--I'm going away."

The detective leaned back and closed his eyes, he looked worn and gray.
Tignol watched him anxiously through a long silence. What could be the
trouble? What had happened? He had never seen M. Paul like this, so broken
and--one would say, discouraged. And this was the moment of his triumph,
the proudest moment in his career. It must be the reaction from these days
of strain, yes that was it.

M. Paul opened his eyes and said in a dull tone: "Did you take the girl to
Pougeot last night?"

"Yes, she's all right. The commissary says he will look after her as if she
were his own daughter until he hears from you."

"Good! And--you showed her the ring?"

The old man nodded. "She understands, she will be careful, but--there's
nothing for her to worry about now--is there?"

Coquenil's face darkened. "You'd better let me have the ring before I
forget it."

"Thanks!" He slipped the old talisman on his finger, and then, after a
troubled pause, he said: "There is more for her to worry about than ever."

"More? You mean on account of Groener?"

"Yes."

"But he's caught, he's in