M. Lucien Pougeot was one of the eighty police commissaries who, each in his own quarter, oversee the moral washing of Paris’s dirty linen.  A commissary of police is first of all a magistrate, but, unless he is a fool, he soon becomes a profound student of human nature, for he sees all sides of life in the great gay capital, especially the darker sides.  He knows the sins of his fellow men and women, their follies and hypocrisies, he receives incredible confessions, he is constantly summoned to the scenes of revolting crime.  Nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises him, and he has no illusions, yet he usually manages to keep a store of grim pity for erring humanity.  M. Pougeot was one of the most distinguished and intelligent members of this interesting body.  He was a devoted friend of Paul Coquenil.

The newcomer was a middle-aged man of strong build and florid face, with a brush of thick black hair.  His quick-glancing eyes were at once cold and kind, but the kindness had something terrifying in it, like the politeness of an executioner.  As the two men stood together they presented absolutely opposite types:  Coquenil, taller, younger, deep-eyed, spare of build, with a certain serious reserve very different from the commissary’s outspoken directness.  M. Pougeot prided himself on reading men’s thoughts, but he used to say that he could not even imagine what Coquenil was thinking or fathom the depths of a nature that blended the eagerness of a child with the austerity of a prophet.

“Well,” remarked the commissary when they were settled in their chairs, “I suppose it’s the Rio Janeiro thing?  Some parting instructions, eh?” And he turned to light a cigar.

Coquenil shook his head.

“When do you sail?”

“I’m not sailing.”

“Wha-at?”

For once in his life M. Pougeot was surprised.  He knew all about this foreign offer, with its extraordinary money advantages; he had rejoiced in his friend’s good fortune after two unhappy years, and now—­now Coquenil informed him calmly that he was not sailing.

“I have just made a decision, the most important decision of my life,” continued the detective, “and I want you to know about it.  You are the only person in the world who will know—­everything.  So listen!  This afternoon I went into Notre-Dame church and I saw a young girl there who sells candles.  I didn’t know her, but she looked up in a queer way, as if she wanted to speak to me, so I went to her and—­well, she told me of a dream she had last night.”

“A dream?” snorted the commissary.

“So she said.  She may have been lying or she may have been put up to it; I know nothing about her, not even her name, but that’s of no consequence; the point is that in this dream, as she called it, she brought together the two most important events in my life.”

“Hm!  What was the dream?”

“She says she saw me twice, once in a forest near a wooden bridge where a man with a beard was talking to a woman and a little girl.  Then she saw me on a boat going to a place where there were black people.”