by the great column near the door dispensing holy water out of a cracked
saucer and whining for pennies. Nothing escaped the hawklike eyes of Mother
Bonneton, and now, with growing curiosity, she watched the scene between
Coquenil and the candle seller. What interest could a great detective have
in this girl, Alice, whom she and her husband had taken in as a
half-charity boarder? Such airs as she gave herself! What was she saying
now? Why should he look at her like that? The baggage!

"Holy saints, how she talks!" grumbled the sacristan's wife. "And see the
eyes she makes! And how he listens! The man must be crazy to waste his time
on her! Now he asks a question and she talks again with that queer,
far-away look. He frowns and clinches his hands, and--upon my soul he seems
afraid of her! He says something and starts to come away. Ah, now he turns
and stares at her as if he had seen a ghost! _Mon Dieu, quelle folie!_"

This whole incident occupied scarcely five minutes, yet it wrought an
extraordinary change in Coquenil. All his buoyancy was gone, and he looked
worn, almost haggard, as he walked to the church door with hard-shut teeth
and face set in an ominous frown.

"There's some devil's work in this," he muttered, and as his eyes caught
the fires of the lurid sky he thought of Papa Tignol's words.

"What is it?" asked the sacristan, approaching timidly.

The detective faced him sharply. "Who is the girl in there? Where did she
come from? How did she get here? Why does she--" He stopped abruptly, and,
pressing the fingers of his two hands against his forehead, he stroked the
brows over his closed eyes as if he were combing away error. "No, no!" he
changed, "don't tell me yet. I must be alone; I must think. Come to me at