t to the judge.

"What is this?" asked the latter.

"His own confession, written by himself and--Quick!" he cried, and sprang
toward the rich man, but Papa Tignol was there before him. With a bound the
old fox had leaped forward from the audience and reached the accused in
time to seize and stay his hand.

"Excuse me, your Honor," apologized the detective, "the man was going to
kill himself."

"It's false!" screamed the baron. "I was getting my handkerchief."

"Here's the handkerchief," said Tignol, holding up a pistol.

At this there was fresh tumult in the audience, with men cursing and women
shrieking.

The judge turned gravely to De Heidelmann-Bruck. "I have a painful duty to
perform, sir. Take this man out--_under arrest_, and--clear the room."

M. Paul sank weakly into a chair and watched idly while the attendants led
away the unresisting millionaire, watched keenly as the judge opened the
baron's diary and began to read. He noted the magistrate's start of
amazement, the eager turning of pages and the increasingly absorbed
attention.

"Astounding! Incredible!" muttered the judge. "A great achievement! I
congratulate you, M. Coquenil. It's the most brilliant coup I have ever
known. It will stir Paris to the depths and make you a--a hero."

"Thank you, thank you," murmured the sick man.

At this moment an awe-struck attendant came forward to say that the baron
wished a word with M. Paul.

"By all means," consented the judge.

Haltingly, on his cane, Coquenil made his way to an adjoining room where
De Heidelmann-Bruck was waiting under guard.

As he glanced at the baron, M. Paul saw that once more the man had
demonstrated his extraordinary self-control, he was cold and composed as
usual.

"We take our medicine, eh?" said the detective admiringly.

"Yes," answered the prisoner, "we take our medicine."

"But there's a difference," reflected Coquenil. "The other day you said you
were sorry when you left me in that hot cellar. Now you're in a fairly hot
place yourself, baron, and--I'm _not_ sorry."

De Heidelmann-Bruck shrugged his shoulders.

"Any objection to my smoking a cigar?" he asked coolly and reached toward
his coat pocket.

With a quick gesture Coquenil stopped the movement.

"_I don't like smoke_," he said with grim meaning. "If there is anything
you want to say, sir, you had better say it."

"I have only this to say, Coquenil," proceeded the baron, absolutely
unruffled; "we had had