“I see, I see,” reflected the old man.  “And Alice?  Does she know that—­that she isn’t Alice?”

“No.”

“Does she know that Groener is her stepfather, and not her cousin?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I think I know why not, but, until I’m sure, I’d rather call it a mystery.  See here, we’ve talked too much, you must hurry back to her.  Better take an auto.  And remember, Papa Tignol,” he added in final warning, “there is nothing so important as to guard this girl.”

A few moments later, with Caesar bounding happily at his side, M. Paul entered the quieter paths of the great park, and presently came to a thickly wooded region that has almost the air of a natural forest.  Here the two romped delightedly together, and Coquenil put the dog through many of his tricks, the fine creature fairly outdoing himself in eagerness and intelligence.

“Now, old fellow,” said M. Paul, “I’ll sit down here and have a cigarette,” and he settled himself on a rustic bench, while Caesar stretched out comfortably at his feet.  And so the one dozed as the other drifted far away in smoke-laden reverie.

What days these had been, to be sure!  How tired he was!  He hadn’t noticed it before, but now that everything was ready, now that he had finished his preparations—­yes, he was very tired.

Everything was ready!  It was good to know that.  He had forgotten nothing.  And, if all went well, he would soon be able to answer these questions that were fretting him.  Who was Groener?  Why had he killed Martinez?  How had he profited by the death of this unfortunate billiard player?  And why did he hate Kittredge?  Was it because the American loved Alice?  And who was Alice, this girl whose dreams and fears changed the lives of serious men?  From whichever side he studied the crime he always came back to her—­Kittredge loved her, Martinez knew her, he himself had started on the case on her account. Who was Alice?

During these reflections Coquenil had been vaguely aware of gay sounds from the neighboring woods, and now a sudden burst of laughter brought him back to the consciousness of things about him.

“We’re too serious, my boy,” he said with an effort at lightness; “this is a bit of an outing, and we must enjoy it.  Come, we’ll move on!”

With the dog at his heels M. Paul turned his steps toward a beautiful cool glade, carpeted in gold and green as the sunbeams sprinkled down through the trees upon the spreading moss.  Here he came into plain view of a company of ladies and gentlemen, who, having witnessed the review, had chosen this delightful spot for luncheon.  They were evidently rich and fashionable people, for they had come as a coaching party on a very smart break, with four beautiful horses, and some in a flashing red-and-black automobile that was now drawn up beside the larger vehicle.

With an idle eye M. Paul observed the details of the luncheon, red-coated servants emptying bounteous hampers and passing tempting food from group to group, others opening bottles of champagne, with popping corks, and filling bubbling glasses, while the men of the party passed back and forth from break to automobile with jests and gay words, or strolled under the trees enjoying post-prandial cigars.