Coquenil came back to consciousness his first thought was that the adventure had brought him no pain; he moved his arms and legs and discovered no injury, then he reached out a hand and found that he was lying on a cold stone floor with his head on a rough sack filled apparently with shavings.

He did not open his eyes, but tried to think where he could be and to imagine what had happened. It was not conceivable that his enemy would let him escape, this delay was merely preliminary to something else and—he was certainly a prisoner—somewhere.

Reasoning thus he caught a sound as of rustling paper, then a faint scratching. With eyes still shut, he turned his face toward the scratching sound, then away from it, then toward it, then away from it. Now he sniffed the air about him, now he rubbed a finger on the floor and smelled it, now he lay quiet and listened. He had found a fascinating problem, and for a long time he studied it without moving and without opening his eyes.

Finally he spoke aloud in playful reproach: "It's a pity, baron, to write in that wonderful diary of yours with a lead pencil."

Instantly there came the scraping of a chair and quick approaching steps.

"How did you see me?" asked a harsh voice.

Coquenil smiled toward a faint light, but kept his eyes closed. "I didn't, I haven't seen you yet."

"But you knew I was writing in my diary?"

"Because you were so absorbed that you did not hear me stir."

"Humph! And the lead pencil?"

"I heard you sharpen it. That was just before you stopped to eat the orange."

The light came nearer. M. Paul felt that the baron was bending over him.

"What's the matter? Your eyes are shut."

"It amuses me to keep them shut. Do you mind?"

"Singular man!" mattered the other. "What makes you think I ate an orange?"

"'What's the matter? Your eyes are shut.'"

"I got the smell of it when you tore the peel off and I heard the seeds drop."

The baron's voice showed growing interest. "Where do you think you are?"

"In a deep underground room where you store firewood."

"Extraordinary!"

"Not at all. The floor is covered with chips of it and this bag is full of shavings."

"How do you know we are underground?"

"By the smell of the floor and because you need a candle when it's full daylight above."

"Then you know what time it is?" asked the other incredulously.

"Why—er—I can tell by looking." He opened his eyes. "Ah, it's earlier than I thought, it's barely seven."

"How the devil do you know that?"

Coquenil did not answer for a moment. He was looking about him wonderingly, noting the damp stone walls and high vaulted ceiling of a large windowless chamber. By the uncertain light of the baron's candle he made out an arched passageway at one side and around the walls piles of logs carefully roped and stacked together.

"Your candle hasn't burned more than an hour," answered the detective.

"It might be a second candle."

M. Paul shook his head. "Then you wouldn't have been eating your breakfast orange. And you wouldn't have been waiting so patiently."

The two men eyed each other keenly.

"Coquenil," said De Heidelmann-Bruck slowly, "I give you credit for unusual cleverness, but if you tell me you have any inkling what I am waiting for——"

"It's more than inkling," answered the detective quietly, "I know that you are waiting for the girl."

"The girl?" The other started.

"The girl Alice or—Mary your stepdaughter."

"God Almighty!" burst out the baron. "What a guess!"

M. Paul shook his head. "No, not a guess, a fair deduction. My ring is gone. It was on my hand before you gave me that chloroform. You took it. That means you needed it. Why? To get the girl! You knew it would bring her, though how you knew it is more than I can understand."

"Gibelin heard you speak of the ring to Pougeot that night in the automobile."

"Ah! And how did you know where the girl was?"

"Guessed it partly and—had Pougeot followed."

"And she's coming here?"

The baron nodded. "She ought to be here shortly." Then with a quick, cruel smile: "I suppose you know why I want her?"

"I'm afraid I do," said Coquenil.

"Suppose we come in here," suggested the other. "I'm tired holding this candle and you don't care particularly about lying on that bag of shavings."

With this he led the way through the arched passageway into another stone chamber very much like the first, only smaller, and lined in the same way with piled-up logs. In the middle of the floor was a rough table spread with food, and two rough chairs. On the table lay the diary.

"Sit down," continued the baron. "Later on you can eat, but first we'll have a talk. Coquenil, I've watched you for years, I know all about you, and—I'll say this, you're the most interesting man I ever met. You've given me trouble, but—that's all right, you played fair, and—I like you, I like you."

There was no doubt about the genuineness of this and M. Paul glanced wonderingly across the table.

"Thanks," he said simply.

"It's a pity you couldn't see things my way. I wanted to be your friend, I wanted to help you. Just think how many times I've gone out of my way to give you chances, fine business chances."

"I know."

"And that night on the Champs ElysÉes! Didn't I warn you? Didn't I almost plead with you to drop this case? And you wouldn't listen?"

"That's true."

"Now see where you are! See what you've forced me to do. It's a pity; it cuts me up, Coquenil." He spoke with real sadness.

"I understand," answered M. Paul. "I appreciate what you say. There's a bond between a good detective and——"

"A great detective!" put in the baron admiringly, "the greatest detective Paris has known in fifty years or will know in fifty more. Yes, yes, it's a pity!"

"I was saying," resumed the other, "that there is a bond between a detective and a criminal—I suppose it gets stronger between a—a great detective," he smiled, "and a great criminal."

De Heidelmann-Bruck looked pleased. "You regard me as a great criminal?"

Coquenil nodded gravely. "I certainly do. The greatest since Ludovico Schertzi—you know he had your identical little finger."

"Really!"

"Yes. And your absolute lack of feeling about crime. Never a tremor! Never a qualm of remorse! Just cold intelligence!"

"Of course." The baron held his left hand close to the candle and looked at it critically. "Strange about that little finger! And pretty the way you caught the clew of it on that photographer's neck. Poor little devil!"

"What did you do with the boots you were trying to return that night?" questioned the detective.

"Burned them."

Coquenil was silent a moment. "And this American? What of him—now?"

"He will be tried and——" The baron shrugged his shoulders.

"And be found guilty?"

"Yes, but—with jealousy as an extenuating circumstance. He'll do a few years, say five."

"I never saw quite why you put the guilt on him."

"It had to go on some one and—he was available."

"You had nothing against him personally?"

"Oh, no. He was a pawn in the game."

"A pawn to be sacrificed—like Martinez?"

"Exactly."

"Ah, that brings me to the main point. How did Martinez get possession of your secret?"

"He met the girl accidentally and—remembered her."

"As the one he had rescued from the Charity Bazaar fire?"

"Yes. You'd better eat a little. Try some of this cold meat and salad? My cook makes rather good dressing."

"No, thanks! Speaking of cooks, how did you know the name of that canary bird?"

"Ha, ha! Pete? I knew it from the husband of the woman who opens the big gate of the Villa Montmorency. He cleans your windows, you know, and—he was useful to me."

"He knew you as—Groener?"

"Of course."

"None of these people knew you really?"

"No."

"Not Dubois?"

"Ah, Dubois knew me, of course, but—Dubois is an automaton to carry out orders; he never knows what they mean. Anything else?"

Coquenil thought a moment. "Oh! Did you know that private room Number Seven would not be occupied that night by Wilmott and the dancing girl?"

"No."

"Then how did you dare go in there?"

"Wilmott and the girl were not due until nine and I had—finished by half past eight."

"How did you know Wilmott would not be there until nine?"

"Martinez told me. It was in Anita's petit bleu that Mrs. Wilmott showed him."

"Had you no direct dealings with Anita?"

The baron shook his head. "I never saw the girl. The thing just happened and—I took my chance."

"You bought the auger for Martinez and told him where to bore the holes?"

"Yes."

"And the key to the alleyway door?"

"I got a duplicate key—through Dubois. Anything else?"

"It's all very clever," reflected M. Paul, "but—isn't it too clever? Too complicated? Why didn't you get rid of this billiard player in some simpler way?"

"A natural question," agreed De Heidelmann-Bruck. "I could have done it easily in twenty ways—twenty stupid safe ways. But don't you see that is what I didn't want? It was necessary to suppress Martinez, but, in suppressing him as I did, there was also good sport. And when a man has everything, Coquenil, good sport is mighty rare."

"I see, I see," murmured the detective. "And you let Alice live all these years for the same reason?"

"Yes."

"The wood-carver game diverted you?"

"Precisely. It put a bit of ginger into existence." He paused, and half closing his eyes, added musingly: "I'll miss it now. And I'll miss the zest of fighting you."

"Ah!" said Coquenil. "By the way, how long have you known that I was working here in your stable?"

The baron smiled. "Since the first day."

"And—you knew about the valet?"

"Naturally."

"And about the safe?"

"It was all arranged."

"Then—then you wanted me to read the diary?"

"Yes," answered the other with a strange expression. "I knew that if you read my diary I should be protected."

"I don't understand."

"Of course not, but—" Suddenly his voice grew harsher and M. Paul thought of the meeting on the Champs ElysÉes. "Do you realize, sir," the baron went on, and his voice was almost menacing, "that not once but half a dozen times since this affair started, I have been on the point of crushing you, of sweeping you out of my path?"

"I can believe that."

"Why haven't I done it? Why have I held back the order that was trembling on my lips? Because I admire you, I'm interested in the workings of your mind, I, yes, by God, in spite of your stubbornness and everything, I like you, Coquenil, and I don't want to harm you.

"You may not believe it," he went on, "but when you sent word to the Brazilian Embassy the other day that you would accept the Rio Janeiro offer, after all, I was honestly happy for you, not for myself. What did it matter to me? I was relieved to know that you were out of danger, that you had come to your senses. Then suddenly you went mad again and, and did this. So I said to myself: 'All right, he wants it, he'll get it,' and, I let you read the diary."

"Why?"

"Why?" cried the baron hoarsely. "Don't you see why? You know everything now, everything. It isn't guesswork, it isn't deduction, it's absolute certainty. You have seen my confession, you know that I killed Martinez, that I robbed this girl of her fortune, that I am going to let an innocent man suffer in my place. You know that to be true, don't you?"

"Yes, I know it to be true."

"And because it's true, and because we both know it to be true, neither one of us can draw back. We cannot draw back if we would. Suppose I said to you: 'Coquenil, I like you, I'm going to let you go free.' What would you reply? You would say: 'Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck, I'm much obliged, but, as an honest man, I tell you that, as soon as I am free, I shall proceed to have this enormous fortune you have been wickedly enjoying taken from you and given to its rightful owner.' Isn't that about what you would say?"

"I suppose it is," answered M. Paul.

"You know it is, and you would also say: 'Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck, I shall not only take this fortune from you and make you very poor instead of very rich, but I shall denounce you as a murderer and shall do my best to have you marched out from a cell in the Roquette prison some fine morning, about dawn, between a jailer and a priest, with your legs roped together and your shirt cut away at the back of the neck and then to have you bound against an upright plank and tipped forward gently under a forty-pound knife'—you see I know the details—and then, phsst! the knife falls and behold the head of De Heidelmann-Bruck in one basket and his body in another! That would be your general idea, eh?"

"Yes, it would," nodded the other.

"Ah!" smiled the baron. "You see how I have protected myself against my own weakness. I must destroy you or be destroyed. I am forced, M. Coquenil, to end my friendly tolerance of your existence."

"I see," murmured M. Paul. "If I hadn't read that diary, your nerve would have been a little dulled for this—business." He motioned meaningly toward the shadows.

"That's it."

"Whereas now the thing has to be done and—you'll do it."

"Exactly! Exactly!" replied the baron with the pleasure one might show at a delicate compliment.

For some moments the two were silent, then M. Paul asked gravely: "How soon will the girl be here?"

"She's undoubtedly here now. She is waiting outside." He pointed to a heavily barred iron door.

"Does she know it was a trick, about the ring?"

"Not yet."

Again there was a silence. Coquenil hesitated before he said with an effort: "Do you think it's necessary to—to include her in this—affair?"

The baron thought a moment. "I think I'd better make a clean job of it."

"You mean both?"

"Yes."

They seemed to understand by half words, by words not spoken, by little signs, as brokers in a great stock-exchange battle dispose of fortunes with a nod or a lift of the eyebrows.

"But—she doesn't know anything about you or against you," added M. Paul, and he seemed to be almost pleading.

"She has caused me a lot of trouble and, she might know."

"You mean, her memory?"

"Yes, it might come back."

"Of course," agreed the other with judicial fairness. "I asked Duprat about it and he said it might."

"Ah, you see!"

"And—when do you—begin?"

"There's no hurry. When we get through talking. Is there anything else you want to ask?"

The detective reflected a moment. "Was it you personally who killed my dog?"

"Yes."

"And my mother?" His face was very white and his voice trembled. "Did you—did you intend to kill her?"

The baron shrugged his shoulders. "I left that to chance."

"That's all," said Coquenil. "I—I am ready now."

With a look of mingled compassion and admiration De Heidelmann-Bruck met M. Paul's unflinching gaze.

"We take our medicine, eh? I took mine when you had me hitched to that heart machine, and—now you'll take yours. Good-by, Coquenil," he held out his hand, "I'm sorry."

"Good-by," answered the detective with quiet dignity. "If it's all the same to you, I—I won't shake hands."

"No? Ah, well! I'll send in the girl." He moved toward the heavy door.

"Wait!" said M. Paul. "You have left your diary." He pointed to the table.

The baron smiled mockingly. "I intended to leave it; the book has served its purpose, I'm tired of it. Don't be alarmed, it will not be found." He glanced with grim confidence at the stacked wood. "You'll have fifteen or twenty minutes after she comes in, that is, if you make no disturbance. Good-by."

The door swung open and a moment later Coquenil saw a dim, white-clad figure among the shadows, and Alice, with beautiful, frightened eyes, staggered toward him. Then the door clanged shut and the sound of grating bolts was heard on the other side.

Alice and Coquenil were alone.