The Greatest Works of Cleveland Moffett - Cleveland Moffett

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wish we had the dial on him now," whispered Duprat to M. Paul.

      "There are your two victims!" accused the magistrate. "Mary and Margaret! How long do you suppose it will take us to identify them among the Charity Bazaar unfortunates? It is a matter of a few hours' record searching. What must we look for? A rich American lady who married a Frenchman. Her name is Margaret. She had a daughter named Mary. The Frenchman's name is Raoul and he probably has a title. We have, also, the lady's photograph and the daughter's photograph and a specimen of the lady's handwriting. Could anything be simpler? The first authority we meet on noble fortune hunters will tell us all about it. And then, M. Adolf Groener, we shall know whether it is a, marquis or a duke whose name must be added to the list of distinguished assassins."

      He paused for a reply, but none came. The guard moved suddenly in the shadows and called for help.

      "Lights!" said the doctor sharply and, as the lamps shone out, the prisoner was seen limp and white, sprawling over a chair.

      Duprat hurried to him and pressed an ear to his heart.

      "He has fainted," said the doctor.

      Coquenil looked half pityingly at his stricken adversary. "Down and out," he murmured.

      Duprat, meantime, was working over the prisoner, rubbing his wrists, loosening his shirt and collar.

      "Ammonia—quick," he said to his assistant, and a moment later, with the strong fumes at his nostrils, Groener stirred and opened his eyes weakly.

      Just then a sound was heard in the distance as of a galloping horse. The white-faced prisoner started and listened eagerly. Nearer and nearer came the rapid hoof beats, echoing through the deserted streets. Now the horse was crossing the little bridge near the hospital, now he was coming madly down the Boulevard du Palais. Who was this rider dashing so furiously through the peaceful night?

      As they all turned wondering, the horse drew up suddenly before the palace and a voice was heard in sharp command. Then the great iron gates swung open and the horse stamped in.

      Hauteville hurried to the open window and stood there listening. Just below him in the courtyard he made out of the flashing helmet and imposing uniform of a mounted garde de Paris. And he caught some quick words that made him start.

      "A messenger from the Prime Minister," muttered the judge, "on urgent business with me."

      Groener heard and, with a long sigh, sank back against the chair and closed his eyes, but Coquenil noticed uneasily that just a flicker of the old patronizing smile was playing about his pallid lips.

      Chapter XXVI.

       Coquenil's Mother

       Table of Contents

      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

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