“There’s one woman who seems to care a lot about this dog,” remarked Tignol.  “I mean the candle girl.  Such a fuss as she made when I went to get him!”

M. Paul listened in surprise.  “What did she do?”

“Do?  She cried and carried on in a great way.  She said something was going to happen to Caesar; she didn’t want me to take him.”

“Strange!” muttered the other.

“I told her I was only taking him to you, and that you would bring him back to-night.  When she had heard that she caught my two hands in hers and said I must tell you she wanted to see you very much.  There’s something on her mind or—­or she’s afraid of something.”

Coquenil frowned and twisted his seal ring, then he changed it deliberately from the left hand to the right, as if with some intention.

“We’ll never get to the bottom of this case,” he muttered, “until we know the truth about that girl.  Papa Tignol, I want you to go right back to Notre-Dame and keep an eye on her.  If she is afraid of something, there’s something to be afraid of, for she knows.  Don’t talk to her; just hang about the church until I come.  Remember, we spend the night there.”

“Sapristi, a night in a church!”

“It won’t hurt you for once,” smiled M. Paul.  “There’s a bed to sleep on, and a lot to talk about.  You know we begin the great campaign to-morrow.”

Tignol rubbed his hands in satisfaction.  “The sooner the better.”  Then yielding to his growing curiosity:  “Have you found out much?”

Coquenil’s eyes twinkled.  “You’re dying to know what I’ve been doing these last five days, eh?”

“Nothing of the sort,” said the old man testily.  “If you want to leave me in the dark, all right, only if I’m to help in the work——­”

“Of course, of course,” broke in the other good-naturedly.  “I was going to tell you to-night, but Bonneton will be with us, so—­come, we’ll stroll through the bois as far as Passy, and I’ll give you the main points.  Then you can take a cab.”

Papa Tignol was enormously pleased at this mark of confidence, but he merely gave one of his jerky little nods and walked along solemnly beside his brilliant associate.  In his loyalty for M. Paul this tough old veteran would have allowed himself to be cut into small pieces, but he would have spluttered and grumbled throughout the operation.

“Let’s see,” began Coquenil, as they entered the beautiful park, “I have five days to account for.  Well, I spent two days in Paris and three in Brussels.”

“Where the wood carver lives?”

“Exactly.  I got his address from Papa Bonneton.  I thought I’d look the man over in his home when he was not expecting me.  And before I started I put in two days studying wood carving, watching the work and questioning the workmen until I knew more about it than an expert.  I made up my mind that, when I saw this man with the long little finger, I must be able to decide whether he was a genuine wood carver—­or—­or something else.”