In vain Coquenil tried to decide whether Groener was really unconscious of impending danger.  Was he deceived by this Matthieu disguise?  Or was it possible, could it be possible, that he was what he appeared to be, a simple-minded wood carver free from any wickedness or duplicity?  No, no, it was marvelous acting, an extraordinary make-up, but this was his man, all right.  There was the long little finger, plainly visible, the identical finger of his seventeenth-century cast.  Yes, this was the enemy, the murderer, delivered into his hands through some unaccountable fortune, and now to be watched like precious prey, and presently to be taken and delivered over to justice.  It seemed too good to be true, too easy, yet there was the man before him, and despite his habit of caution and his knowledge that this was no ordinary adversary, the detective thrilled as over a victory already won.

The wood carver went on to express delight at being back in Paris, where his work would keep him three or four days.  Business was brisk, thank Heaven, with an extraordinary demand for old sideboards with carved panels of the Louis XV period, which they turned out by the dozen, ha, ha, ha! in the Brussels shop.  He described with gusto and with evident inside knowledge how they got the worm holes in these panels by shooting fine shot into them and the old appearance by burying them in the ground.  Then he told how they distributed the finished sideboards among farmhouses in various parts of Belgium and Holland and France, where they were left to be “discovered,” ha, ha, ha! by rich collectors glad to pay big prices to the simple-minded farmers, working on commission, who had inherited these treasures from their ancestors.

Across the table Matthieu, with grinning yellow teeth, showed his appreciation of this trick in art catering, and presently, when the coffee was served, he made bold to ask M. Groener if there would be any chance for a man like himself in a wood-carving shop.  He was strong and willing and—­his present job at Notre-Dame was only for a few days.  Papa Bonneton nearly choked over his demi tasse as he listened to this plea, but the wood carver took it seriously.

“I’ll help you with pleasure,” he said; “I’ll take you around with me to several shops to-morrow.”

“To-morrow, not to-day?” asked Matthieu, apparently disappointed.

“To-day,” smiled Groener, “I enjoy myself.  This afternoon I escort my pretty cousin to hear some music.  Did you know that, Alice?” He turned gayly to the girl.

Since the meal began Alice had scarcely spoken, but had sat looking down at her plate save at certain moments when she would lift her eyes suddenly and fix them on Groener with a strange, half-frightened expression.

“You are very kind, Cousin Adolf,” she answered timidly, “but—­I’m not feeling well to-day.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked in a tone of concern that had just a touch of hardness in it.