“Yes.”

“Good!  Now I’ll show you how you’re going to make this money.  I want Francois to have a little vacation; he looks tired.  I want him to go into the country on Tuesday and stay until Friday.”

“And his work?  Who will do his work?”

Coquenil smiled quietly and tapped his breast.

“You?”

“I will take Francois’s place.  I’ll be the best assistant you ever had and I shall enjoy Mother Bonneton’s cooking.”

“You will take your meals with us?” cried the sacristan aghast.  “But they all know you.”

“None of them will know me; you won’t know me yourself.”

“Ah, I see,” nodded the old man wisely.  “You will have a disguise.  But my wife has sharp eyes.”

“If she knows me, or if the candle girl knows me, I’ll give you a thousand francs instead of five hundred.  Now, here is the money for Francois”—­he handed the sacristan a hundred-franc note—­“and here are five hundred francs for you.  I shall come on Tuesday, ready for work.  When do you want me?”

“At six o’clock,” answered the sacristan doubtfully.  “But what shall I say if anyone asks me about it?”

“Say Francois was sick, and you got your old friend Matthieu to replace him for a few days.  I’m Matthieu!”

Papa Bonneton touched the five crisp bank notes caressingly; their clean blue and white attracted him irresistibly.

“You wouldn’t get me into trouble, M. Paul?” he appealed weakly.

“Papa Bonneton,” answered Coquenil earnestly, “have I ever shown you anything but friendship?  When old Max died and you asked me to lend you Caesar I did it, didn’t I?  And you know what Caesar is to me.  I love that dog, if anything happened to him—­well, I don’t like to think of it, but I let you have him, didn’t I?  That proves my trust; now I want yours.  I can’t explain my reasons; it isn’t necessary, but I tell you that what I’m asking cannot do you the least harm, and may do me the greatest good.  There, it’s up to you.”

M. Paul held out his hand frankly and the sacristan took it, with emotion.

“That settles it,” he murmured.  “I never doubted you, but—­my wife has an infernal tongue and——­”

“She will never know anything about this,” smiled the other, “and, if she should, give her one or two of these bank notes.  It’s wonderful how they change a woman’s point of view.  Besides, you can prepare her by talking about Francois’s bad health.”

“A good idea!” brightened Bonneton.

“Then it’s understood.  Tuesday, at six, your friend Matthieu will be here to replace Francois.  Remember—­Matthieu!”

“I’ll remember.”

The detective rose to go.  “Good night—­or, rather, good morning, for the day is shining through that rose window.  Pretty, isn’t it?  Ouf, I wonder when I’ll get the sleep I need!” He moved toward the door.  “Oh, I forgot about the dog.  Tignol will come for him Tuesday morning with a line from me.  I shall want Caesar in the afternoon, but I’ll bring him back at six.”