“Knew what?”

The jailer eyed Coquenil searchingly. “Nom d’un chien, I guess you’re straight, after all, but—­how did she come to write that?” He scratched his dull head in mystification.

“I have no idea.”

“See here,” went on Dedet, almost appealingly, “do you believe a girl I never saw could know a thing about me that nobody knows?”

“Strange!” mused the detective.  “Is it an important thing?”

“Is it?  If it hadn’t been about the most important thing, do you think I’d have broken a prison rule and let her see that man?  Well, I guess not.  But I was up against it and—­I took a chance.”

Coquenil thought a moment.  “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what these words mean that she wrote?”

“No, I don’t,” said the jailer dryly.

“All right.  Anyhow, you see I had nothing to do with it.”  He paused, and then in a businesslike tone:  “Well, I’d better get to work.  I want that prisoner out in the courtyard.”

“Can’t have him.”

“No?  Here’s the judge’s order.”

But the other shook his head.  “I’ve had later orders, just got ’em over the telephone, saying you’re not to see the prisoner.”

“What?”

“That’s right, and he wants to see you.”

“He?  Who?”

“The judge.  They’ve called me down, now it’s your turn.”

Coquenil took off his glasses and rubbed them carefully.  Then, without more discussion, he left the prison and drove directly to the Palais de Justice; he was perplexed and indignant, and vaguely anxious.  What did this mean?  What could it mean?

As he approached the lower arm of the river where it enfolds the old island city, he saw Bobet sauntering along the quay and drew up to speak to him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.  “I told you to watch that diver.”

The young detective shrugged his shoulders.  “The job’s done, he found the auger.”

“Ah!  Where is it?”

“I gave it to M. Gibelin.”

Coquenil could scarcely believe his ears.

“You gave the auger to Gibelin?  Why?”

“Because he told me to.”

“You must be crazy!  Gibelin had nothing to do with this.  You take your orders from me.”

“Do I?” laughed the other.  “M.  Gibelin says I take orders from him.”

“We’ll see about this,” muttered M. Paul, and crossing the little bridge, he entered the courtyard of the Palais de Justice and hurried up to the office of Judge Hauteville.  On the stairs he met Gibelin, fat and perspiring.

“See here,” he said abruptly, “what have you done with that auger?”

“Put it in the department of old iron,” rasped the other.  “We can’t waste time on foolish clews.”

Coquenil glared at him.  “We can’t, eh?  I suppose you have decided that?”

“Precisely,” retorted Gibelin, his red mustache bristling.