nine to-night."

"I--I'll try to come," said Bonneton, with visions of an objecting wife.

"You _must_ come," insisted the detective. "Remember, nine o'clock," and he
started to go.

"Yes, yes, quite so," murmured the sacristan, following him. "But, M.
Paul--er--which day do you sail?"

Coquenil turned and snapped out angrily: "I may not sail at all."

"But the--the position in Rio Janeiro?"

"A thousand thunders! Don't talk to me!" cried the other, and there was
such black rage in his look that Bonneton cowered away, clasping and
unclasping his hands and murmuring meekly: "Ah, yes, exactly."

* * * * *

So much for the humble influence that turned Paul Coquenil toward an
unbelievable decision and led him ultimately into the most desperate
struggle of his long and exciting career. A day of sinister portent this
must have been, for scarcely had Coquenil left Notre-Dame when another
scene was enacted there that should have been happy, but that, alas! showed
only a rough and devious way stretching before two lovers. And again it was
the girl who made trouble, this seller of candles, with her fine hands and
her hair and her wistful dark eyes. A strange and pathetic figure she was,
sitting there alone in the somber church. Quite alone now, for it was
closing time, Mother Bonneton had shuffled off rheumatically after a