“Yes.  Of course she may refuse to help me, but I think I can persuade her with you to back me up.”  He smiled meaningly.

“I?  What can I do?”

“Everything, my friend.  You can testify that Father Anselm planned Alice’s escape, which is bad for him, as his sister will realize.  I’ll say to her:  ’Now, my dear Madam Page’—­that’s her name—­’you’re not going to force me and my friend, M. Matthieu—­he’s waiting outside, in a cab—­you’re not going to force us to charge your reverend brother with abducting a young lady?  That wouldn’t be a nice story to tell the commissary of police, would it?  You’re too intelligent a woman, Madam Page, to allow such a thing, aren’t you?’ And she’ll see the point mighty quick.  She’ll probably drive right back with us to Notre-Dame and put a little sense into her brother’s shaven head.  It’s four o’clock now,” he concluded gayly; “I’ll bet you we have Alice with us for dinner by seven, and it will be a good dinner, too.  Understand you dine with us, M. Matthieu.”

The man’s effrontery was prodigious and there was so much plausibility in his glib chatter that, in spite of himself, Coquenil kept a last lingering wonder if Groener could be telling the truth.  If not, what was his motive in this elaborate fooling?  He must know that his hypocrisy and deceit would presently be exposed.  So what did he expect to gain by it?  What could he be driving at?

“Stop at the third doorway in the Rue Tronchet,” directed the wood carver as they entered the Place de la Madeleine, and pointing to a hairdresser’s sign, he added:  “There is her place, up one flight.  Now, if you will be patient for a few minutes, I think I’ll come back with good news.”

As Groener stepped from the carriage, Coquenil was on the point of seizing him and stopping this farce forthwith.  What would he gain by waiting?  Yet, after all, what would he lose?  With four trained men to guard the house there was no chance of the fellow escaping, and it was possible his visit here might reveal something.  Besides, a detective has the sportsman’s instinct, he likes to play his fish before landing it.

“All right,” nodded M. Paul, “I’ll be patient,” and as the wood carver disappeared, he signaled Tignol to surround the house.

“He’s trying to lose us,” said the old fox, hurrying up a moment later.  “There are three exits here.”

“Three?”

“Don’t you know this place?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a passage from the first courtyard into a second one, and from that you can go out either into the Place de la Madeleine or the Rue de l’Arcade.  I’ve got a man at each exit but”——­he shook his head dubiously—­“one man may not be enough.”

“Tonnere de Dieu, it’s Madam Cecile’s!” cried Coquenil.  Then he gave quick orders:  “Put the chauffeur with one of your men in the Rue de l’Arcade, bring your other man here and we’ll double him up with this driver.  Listen,” he said to the jehu; “you get twenty francs extra to help watch this doorway for the man who just went in.  We have a warrant for his arrest.  You mustn’t let him get past.  Understand?”