“Thanks,” said M. Paul.  “I think I’ll have a word with the chief.”

In the outer office Coquenil learned that M. Simon was just then in conference with one of the other judges and for some minutes he walked slowly up and down the long corridor, smiling bitterly, until presently one of the doors opened and the chief came out followed by a black bearded judge, who was bidding him obsequious farewell.

As M. Simon moved away briskly, his eye fell on the waiting detective, and his genial face clouded.

“Ah, Coquenil,” he said, and with a kindly movement he took M. Paul’s arm in his.  “I want a word with you—­over here,” and he led the way to a wide window space.  “I’m sorry about this business.”

“Sorry?” exclaimed M. Paul.  “So is Hauteville sorry, but—­if you’re sorry, why did you let the thing happen?”

“Not so loud,” cautioned M. Simon.  “My dear fellow, I assure you I couldn’t help it, I had nothing to do with it.”

Coquenil stared at him incredulously.  “Aren’t you chief of the detective bureau?”

“Yes,” answered the other in a low tone, “but the order came from—­from higher up.”

“You mean from the prefet de police?”

M. Simon laid a warning finger on his lips.  “This is in strictest confidence, the order came through his office, but I don’t believe the prefet issued it personally. It came from higher up!”

“From higher up!” repeated M. Paul, and his thoughts flashed back to that sinister meeting on the Champs Elysees, to that harsh voice and flaunting defiance.

“He said he had power, that left-handed devil,” muttered the detective, “he said he had the biggest kind of power, and—­I guess he has.”

CHAPTER XVIII

A LONG LITTLE FINGER

Coquenil kept his appointment that night at the Three Wise Men and found Papa Tignol waiting for him, his face troubled even to the tip of his luminous purple nose.  In vain the old man tried to show interest in a neighboring game of dominoes; the detective saw at a glance that his faithful friend had heard the bad news and was mourning over it.

“Ah, M. Paul,” cried Tignol.  “This is a pretty thing they tell me. Nom d’un chien, what a pack of fools they are!”

“Not so loud,” cautioned Coquenil with a quiet smile.  “It’s all right, Papa Tignol, it’s all for the best.”

“All for the best?” stared the other.  “But if you’re off the force?”

“Wait a little and you’ll understand,” said the detective in a low tone, then as the tavern door opened:  “Here is Pougeot!  I telephoned him.  Good evening, Lucien,” and he shook hands cordially with the commissary, whose face wore a serious, inquiring look.  “Will you have something, or shall we move on?” and, under his breath, he added:  “Say you don’t want anything.”

“I don’t want anything,” obeyed Pougeot with a puzzled glance.