“All right,” nodded the sacristan; “he’ll be ready. Au revoir—­until Tuesday.”

M. Paul went through the side door and then through the high iron gateway before the archbishop’s house.  He glanced at his watch and it was after five.  Across the square Papa Tignol was waiting.

“Things are marching along,” smiled Coquenil some minutes later as they rolled along toward the Eastern railway station.  “You know what you have to do.  And I know what I have to do! Bon Dieu! what a life!  You’d better have more money—­here,” and he handed the other some bank notes.  “We meet Tuesday at noon near the Auteuil station beneath the first arch of the viaduct.”

“Do you know what day Tuesday is?”

M. Paul thought a moment.  “The fourteenth of July!  Our national holiday!  And the crime was committed on the American Independence Day.  Strange, isn’t it?”

“There will be a great crowd about.”

“There’s safety in a crowd.  Besides, I’ve got to suit my time to his.”

“Then you really expect to see—­him?” questioned the old man.

“Yes,” nodded the other briefly.  “Remember this, don’t join me on Tuesday or speak to me or make any sign to me unless you are absolutely sure you have not been followed.  If you are in any doubt, put your message under the dog’s collar and let him find me.  By the way, you’d better have Caesar clipped.  It’s a pity, but—­it’s safer.”

Now they were rattling up the Rue Lafayette in the full light of day.

“Ten minutes to six,” remarked Tignol.  “My train leaves at six forty.”

“You’ll have time to get breakfast.  I’ll leave you now.  There’s nothing more to say.  You have my letter—­for her.  You’ll explain that it isn’t safe for me to write through the post office.  And she mustn’t try to write me.  I’ll come to her as soon as I can.  You have the money for her; say I want her to buy a new dress, a nice one, and if there’s anything else she wants, why, she must have it.  Understand?”

Tignol nodded.

Then, dropping the cab window, M. Paul told the driver to stop, and they drew up before the terraced fountains of the Trinite church.

“Good-by and good luck,” said Coquenil, clasping Tignol’s hand, “and—­don’t let her worry.”

The cab rolled on, and M. Paul, bag in hand, strode down a side street; but just at the corner he turned and looked after the hurrying vehicle, and his eyes were full of sadness and yearning.

* * * * *

Tuesday, the fourteenth of July!  The great French holiday!  All Paris in the streets, bands playing, soldiers marching, everybody happy or looking happy!  And from early morning all trains, ’buses, cabs, automobiles, in short, all moving things in the gay city were rolling a jubilant multitude toward the Bois de Boulogne, where the President of the Republique was to review the troops before a million or so of his fellow-citizens.  Coquenil had certainly chosen the busiest end of Paris for his meeting with Papa Tignol.