In accordance with orders, Papa Tignol appeared at the Villa Montmorency betimes the next morning. It was a perfect summer's day and the old man's heart was light as he walked up the Avenue des Tilleuls, past vine-covered walls and smiling gardens.

"Eh, eh!" he chuckled, "it's good to be alive on a day like this and to know what I know."

He was thinking, with a delicious thrill, of the rapid march of events in the last twenty-four hours, of the keen pursuit, the tricks and disguises, the anxiety and the capture and then of the great coup of the evening. Bon dieu, what a day!

And now the chase was over! The murderer was tucked away safely in a cell at the depot. Ouf, he had given them some bad moments, this wood carver! 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 prison."

The detective shook his head. "He's not in prison."

"Not in prison?"

"He was set at liberty about—about two o'clock this morning."

Tignol stared stupidly, scarcely taking in the words. "But—but he's guilty."

"I know."

"You have all this evidence against him?"

"Yes."

"Then—then how is he at liberty?" stammered the other.

Coquenil reached for a match, struck it deliberately and lighted a cigarette.

"By order of the Prime Minister," he said quietly, and blew out a long white fragrant cloud.

"You mean—without trial?"

"Yes—without trial. He's a very important person, Papa Tignol."

The old man scratched his head in perplexity. "I didn't know anybody was too important to be tried for murder."

"He can't be tried until he's committed for trial by a judge."

"Well? And Hauteville?"

"Hauteville will never commit him."

"Why not?"

"Because Hauteville has been removed from office."

"Wha-at?"

"His commission was revoked this morning by order of the Minister of Justice."

"Judge Hauteville—discharged!" murmured Tignol, in bewilderment.

Coquenil nodded and then added sorrowfully: "And you, too, my poor friend. Everyone who has had anything to do with this case, from the highest to the lowest, will suffer. We all made a frightful mistake, they say, in daring to arrest and persecute this most distinguished and honorable citizen. Ha, ha!" he concluded bitterly as he lighted another cigarette.

"C'est Épatant!" exclaimed Tignol. "He must be a rich devil!"

"He's rich and—much more."

"Whe-ew! He must be a senator or—or something like that?"

"Much more," said Coquenil grimly.

"More than a senator? Then—then a cabinet minister? No, it isn't possible?"

"He is more important than a cabinet minister, far more important."

"Holy snakes!" gasped Tignol. "I don't see anything left except the Prime Minister himself."

"This man is so highly placed," declared Coquenil gravely, "he is so powerful that——"

"Stop!" interrupted the other. "I know. He was in that coaching party; he killed the dog, it was—it was the Duke de Montreuil."

"No, it was not," replied Coquenil. "The Duke de Montreuil is rich and powerful, as men go in France, but this man is of international importance, his fortune amounts to a thousand million francs, at least, and his power is—well—he could treat the Duke de Montreuil like a valet."

"Who—who is he?"

Coquenil pointed to his table where a book lay open. "Do you see that red book? It's the Annuaire de la Noblesse FranÇaise. You'll find his name there—marked with a pencil."

Tignol went eagerly to the table, then, as he glanced at the printed page there came over his face an expression of utter amazement.

"It isn't possible!" he cried.

"I know," agreed Coquenil, "it isn't possible, but—it's true!"

"Dieu de Dieu de Dieu!" frowned the old man, bobbing his cropped head and tugging at his sweeping black mustache. Then slowly in awe-struck tones he read from the great authority on French titles:

"You see, it's all there," said M. Paul. "His name is Raoul and his wife's name was Margaret. She died in the Charity Bazaar fire, and his stepdaughter Mary is put down as having died there, too. We know where she is."

"The devil! The devil! The devil!" muttered Tignol, his nut-cracker face screwed up in comical perplexity. "This will rip things wide, wide open."

The detective shook his head. "It won't rip anything open."

"But if he is guilty?"

"No one will know it, no one would believe it."

"You know it, you can prove it."

"How can I prove it? The courts are closed against me. And even if they weren't, do you suppose it would be possible to convict the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck of any crime? Nonsense! He's the most powerful man in France. He controls the banks, the bourse, the government. He can cause a money panic by lifting his hand. He can upset the ministry by a word over the telephone. He financed the campaign that brought in the present radical government, and his sister is the wife of the Prime Minister."

"And he killed Martinez!" added Tignol.

"Yes."

For fully a minute the two men faced each other in silence. M. Paul lighted another cigarette.

"Couldn't you tell what you know in the newspapers?"

"No newspaper in France would dare to print it," said Coquenil gravely.

"Perhaps there is some mistake," suggested the other, "perhaps he isn't the man."

The detective opened his table drawer and drew out several photographs. "Look at those!"

One by one Tignol studied the photographs. "It's the man we arrested, all right—without the beard."

"It's the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck," said Coquenil.

Tignol gazed at the pictures with a kind of fascination.

"How many millions did you say he has?"

"A thousand—or more."

"A thousand millions!" He screwed up his face again and pulled reflectively on his long red nose. "And I put the handcuffs on him! Holy camels!"

Coquenil lighted another cigarette and breathed in the smoke deeply.

"Aren't you smoking too many of those things? That makes five in ten minutes."

M. Paul shrugged his shoulders. "What's the difference?"

"I see, you're thinking out some plan," approved the other.

"Plan for what?"

"For putting this thousand-million-franc devil where he belongs," grinned the old man.

The detective eyed his friend keenly. "Papa Tignol, that's the prettiest compliment anyone ever paid me. In spite of all I have said you have confidence that I could do this man up—somehow, eh?"

"Sure!"

"I don't know, I don't know," reflected Coquenil, and a shadow of sadness fell over his pale, weary face. "Perhaps I could, but—I'm not going to try."

"You—you're not going to try?"

"No, I'm through, I wash my hands of the case. The Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck can sleep easily as far as I am concerned."

Tignol bounded to his feet and his little eyes flashed indignantly. "I don't believe it," he cried. "I won't have it. You can't tell me Paul Coquenil is afraid. Are you afraid?"

"I don't think so," smiled the other.

"And Paul Coquenil hasn't been bought? He can't be bought—can he?"

"I hope not."

"Then—then what in thunder do you mean," he demanded fiercely, "by saying you drop this case?"

M. Paul felt in his coat pocket and drew out a folded telegram. "Read that, old friend," he answered with emotion, "and—and thank you for your good opinion."

Slowly Tignol read the contents of the blue sheet.

"Quel malheur! Quel malheur!" exclaimed the old man. "My poor M. Paul! Forgive me! I'm a stupid fool," and he grasped his companion's hand in quick sympathy.

"It's all right, you didn't understand," said the other gently.

"And you—you think it's his doing?"

"Of course. He must have given the order in that cipher dispatch to Dubois. Dubois is a secret agent of the government. He communicated with the Prime Minister, but the Prime Minister was away inaugurating a statue; he didn't return until after midnight. That is why the man wasn't set at liberty sooner. No wonder he kept looking at the clock."

"And Dubois telegraphed to have this hellish thing done?"

"Yes, yes, they had warned me, they had killed my dog, and—and now they have struck at my mother." He bent down his head on his hands. "She's all I've got, Tignol, she's seventy years old and—infirm and—no, no, I quit, I'm through."

In his distress and perplexity the old man could think of nothing to say; he simply tugged at his fierce mustache and swore hair-raising oaths under his breath.

"And the insurance?" he asked presently. "What does that mean?"

"I sent the renewal money to this lawyer Abel," answered Coquenil in a dull tone. "They have used him against me to—to take my savings. I had put about all that I had into this home for my mother. You see they want to break my heart and—they've just about done it."

He was silent a moment, then glanced quickly at his watch. "Come, we have no time to lose. My train leaves in an hour. I have important things to explain—messages for Pougeot and the girl—I'll tell you in the carriage."

Five minutes later they were speeding swiftly in an automobile toward the Eastern railway station.

There followed three days of pitiful anxiety for Coquenil. His mother's health was feeble at the best, and the shock of this catastrophe, the sudden awakening in the night to find flames roaring about her, the difficult rescue, and the destruction of her peaceful home, all this was very serious for the old lady; indeed, there were twenty-four hours during which the village doctor could offer small comfort to the distracted son.

Madam Coquenil, however, never wavered in her sweet faith that all was well. She was comfortable now in the home of a hospitable neighbor and declared she would soon be on her feet again. It was this faith that saved her, vowed Ernestine, her devoted companion; but the doctor laughed and said it was the presence of M. Paul.

At any rate, within the week all danger was past and Coquenil observed uneasily that, along with her strength and gay humor, his mother was rapidly recovering her faculty of asking embarrassing questions and of understanding things that had not been told her. In the matter of keen intuitions it was like mother like son.

So, delay as he would and evade as he would, the truth had finally to be told, the whole unqualified truth; he had given up this case that he had thought so important, he had abandoned a fight that he had called the greatest of his life.

"Why have you done it, my boy?" the old lady asked him gently, her searching eyes fixed gravely on him. "Tell me—tell me everything."

And he did as she bade him, just as he used to when he was little; he told her all that had happened from the crime to the capture, then of the assassin's release and his own baffling failure at the very moment of success.

His mother listened with absorbed interest, she thrilled, she radiated, she sympathized; and she shivered at the thought of such power for evil.

When he had finished, she lay silent, thinking it all over, not wishing to speak hastily, while Paul stroked her white hand.

"And the young man?" she asked presently. "The one who is innocent? What about him?"

"He is in prison, he will be tried."

"And then? They have evidence against him, you said so—the footprints, the pistol, perhaps more that this man can manufacture. Paul, he will be found guilty?"

"I—I don't know."

"But you think so?"

"It's possible, mother, but—I've done all I can."

"He will be found guilty," she repeated, "this innocent young man will be found guilty. You know it, and—you give up the case."

"That's unfair. I give up the case because your life is more precious to me than the lives of fifty young men."

The old lady paused a moment, holding his firm hand in her two slender ones, then she said sweetly, yet in half reproach: "My son, do you think your life is less precious to me than mine is to you?"

"Why—why, no," he said.

"It isn't, but we can't shirk our burdens, Paul." She pointed simply to the picture of a keen-eyed soldier over the fireplace, a brave, lovable face. "If we are men we do our work; if we are women, we bear what comes. That is how your father felt when he left me to—to—you understand, my boy?"

"Yes, mother."

"I want you to decide in that spirit. If it's right to drop this case, I shall be glad, but I don't want you to drop it because you are afraid—for me, or—for anything."

"But mother——"

"Listen, Paul; I know how you love me, but you mustn't put me first in this matter, you must put your honor first, and the honor of your father's name."

"I've decided the thing"—he frowned—"it's all settled. I have sent word by Tignol to the Brazilian embassy that I will accept that position in Rio Janeiro. It's still open, and—mother," he went on eagerly, "I'm going to take you with me."

Her face brightened under its beautiful crown of silver-white hair, but she shook her head.

"I couldn't go, Paul; I could never bear that long sea journey, and I should be unhappy away from these dear old mountains. If you go, you must go alone. I don't say you mustn't go, I only ask you to think, to think."

"I have thought," he answered impatiently. "I've done nothing but think, ever since Ernestine sent that telegram."

"You have thought about me," she chided. "Have you thought about the case? Have you thought that, if you give it up, an innocent man will suffer and a guilty man will go unpunished?"

"Hah! The guilty man! It's a jolly sure thing he'll go unpunished, whatever I do."

"I don't believe it," cried the old lady, springing forward excitedly in her invalid's chair, "such wickedness cannot go unpunished. No, my boy, you can conquer, you will conquer."

"I can't fight the whole of France," he retorted sharply. "You don't understand this man's power, mother; I might as well try to conquer the devil."

"I don't ask you to do that," she laughed, "but—isn't there anything you can think of? You've always won out in the past, and—what is this man's intelligence to yours?" She paused and then went on more earnestly: "Paul, I'm so proud of you, and—you can't rest under this wrong that has been done you. I want the Government to make amends for putting you off the force. I want them to publicly recognize your splendid services. And they will, my son, they must, if you will only go ahead now, and—there I'm getting foolish." She brushed away some springing tears. "Come, we'll talk of something else."

Nothing more was said about the case, but the seed was sown, and as the evening passed, the wise old lady remarked that her son fell into moody silences and strode about restlessly. And, knowing the signs, she left him to his thoughts.

When bedtime came, Paul kissed her tenderly good night and then turned to withdraw, but he paused at the door, and with a look that she remembered well from the days of his boyhood transgressions, a look of mingled frankness and shamefacedness, he came back to her bedside.

"Mother," he said, "I want to be perfectly honest about this thing; I told you there is nothing that I could do against this man; as a matter of fact, there is one thing that I could possibly do. It's a long shot, with the odds all against me, and, if I should fail, he would do me up, that's sure; still, I must admit that I see a chance, one small chance of—landing him. I thought I'd tell you because—well, I thought I'd tell you."

"My boy!" she cried. "My brave boy! I'm happy now. All I wanted was to have you think this thing over alone, and—decide alone. Good night, Paul! God bless you and—help you!"

"Good night, mother," he said fondly. "I will decide before to-morrow, and—whatever I do, I—I'll remember what you say."

Then he went to his room and for hours through the night Ernestine, watching by the patient, saw his light burning.

The next morning he came again to his mother's bedside with his old buoyant smile, and after loving greetings, he said simply: "It's all right, little mother, I see my way. I'm going to take the chance, and," he nodded confidently, "between you and me, it isn't such a slim chance, either."