“Of course,” agreed Pougeot.  “And if you were mistaken?”

“Then I’ve been wasting my time on a second-class investigation that a second-class man like Gibelin could have carried on as well as I; and losing the Rio Janeiro offer besides.”  He leaned forward suddenly toward the chauffeur.  “See here, what are you trying to do?” As he spoke they barely escaped colliding with a cab coming down the Champs Elysees.

“It was his fault; one of his lanterns is out,” declared the chauffeur, and, half turning, he exchanged curses with the departing jehu.

They had now reached Napoleon’s arch, and, at greater speed, the automobile descended the Avenue de la Grande Armee.

“Are you thinking of accepting the Rio Janeiro offer?” asked the commissary presently.

“Very seriously; but I don’t know whether it’s still open.  I thought perhaps you would go to the Brazilian Embassy and ask about it delicately.  I don’t like to go myself, after this affair.  Do you mind?”

“No, I don’t mind, of course I don’t mind,” answered, Pougeot, “but, my dear Paul, aren’t you a little on your nerves to-night; oughtn’t you to think the whole matter over before deciding?”

“That’s right,” agreed Tignol.

“What is there to think about?” said Coquenil.  “If you’ve got anything to say, either of you, say it now.  Run on through the bois,” he directed the chauffeur, “and then out on the St. Cloud road.  This air is doing me a lot of good,” he added, drawing in deep breaths.

For some minutes they sat silent, speeding along through the Bois de Boulogne, dimly beautiful under a crescent moon, on past crowded restaurants with red-clad musicians on the terraces, on past the silent lake and then through narrow and deserted roads until they had crossed the great park and emerged upon the high-way.

“Where are we going, anyway?” inquired Tignol.

“For a little ride, for a little change,” sighed M. Paul.

“Come, come,” urged Pougeot, “you are giving way too much.  Now listen to me.”

Then, clearly and concisely, the commissary went over the situation, considering his friend’s problem from various points of view; and so absorbed was he in fairly setting forth the advantages and disadvantages of the Rio Janeiro position that he did not observe Coquenil’s utter indifference to what he was saying.  But Papa Tignol saw this, and gradually, as he watched the detective with his shrewd little eyes, it dawned upon the old man that they were not speeding along here in the night, a dozen miles out of Paris, simply for their health, but that something special was preparing.

“What in the mischief is Coquenil up to?” wondered Tignol.

And presently, even Pougeot, in spite of his preoccupation, began to realize that there was something peculiar about this night promenade, for as they reached a crossroad, M. Paul ordered the chauffeur to turn into it and go ahead as fast as he pleased.  The chauffeur hesitated, muttered some words of protest, and then obeyed.