“Of course not.”

“And—­and you knew it was Gibelin all the time?”

“Yes.  Be patient, Lucien, until we get back and I’ll tell you everything.”

The run to Paris took nearly an hour, for they made a detour, and Coquenil drove cautiously; but they arrived safely, shortly after one, and left the automobile at the company’s garage, with the explanation (readily accepted, since a police commissary gave it) that the man who belonged with the machine had met with an accident; indeed, this was true, for the genuine chauffeur had used Gibelin’s bribe money in unwise libations and appeared the next morning with a battered head and a glib story that was never fully investigated.

“Now,” said Coquenil, as they left the garage, “where can we go and be quiet?  A cafe is out of the question—­we mustn’t be seen.  Ah, that room you were to take,” he turned to Tignol.  “Did you get it?”

“I should say I did,” grumbled the old man, “I’ve something to tell you.”

“Tell me later,” cut in the detective.  “We’ll go there.  We can have something to eat sent in and—­” he smiled indulgently at Tignol—­“and something to drink.  Hey, cocher!” he called to a passing cab, and a moment later the three men were rolling away to the Latin Quarter, with Coquenil’s leather bag on the front seat.

“Enfin!” sighed Pougeot, when they were finally settled in Tignol’s room, which they reached after infinite precautions, for M. Paul seemed to imagine that all Paris was in a conspiracy to follow them.

“I’ve been watched every minute since I started on this case,” he said thoughtfully.  “My house has been watched, my servant has been watched, my letters have been opened; there isn’t one thing I’ve done that they don’t know.”

“They?  Who?” asked the commissary.

“Ah, who?” repeated M. Paul.  “If I only knew.  You saw what they did with Gibelin to-night, set him after me when he is supposed to be handling this case.  Fancy that!  Who gave Gibelin his orders?  Who had the authority?  That’s what I want to know.  Not the chief, I swear; the chief is straight in this thing. It’s some one above the chief.  Lucien, I told you this was a great case and—­it is.”

“Then you didn’t mean what you were saying in the automobile about having doubts?”

“Not a word of it.”

“That was all for Gibelin?”

“Exactly.  There’s a chance that he may believe it, or believe some of it.  He’s such a conceited ass that he may think I only discovered him just at the last.”

“And you’re not thinking of going to Rio Janeiro?”

Coquenil shut his teeth hard, and there came into his eyes a look of indomitable purpose.  “Not while the murderer of Martinez is walking about this town laughing at me.  I expect to do some laughing myself before I get through with this case.”

Both men stared at him.  “But you are through.”