“You think he went higher up?”

“I’m sure he did, for I spoke to Cecile herself.  She wouldn’t dare lie to me, and she says she has seen no such man as Groener.”

“Then he’s in one of the upper apartments now?”

“He must be.”

Coquenil turned back and forth, snapping his fingers softly.  “I’m nervous, Papa Tignol,” he said; “I ought not to have let him go in here, I ought to have nailed him when I had him.  He’s too dangerous a man to take chances with and—­mille tonneres, the roof!”

Tignol shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  He might get through one scuttle, but he’d have a devil of a time getting in at another.  He has no tools.”

Coquenil looked at his watch.  “He’s been in there fifteen minutes.  I’ll give him five minutes more.  If he isn’t out then, we’ll search the whole block from roof to cellar.  Papa Tignol, it will break my heart if this fellow gets away.”

He laid an anxious hand on his companion’s arm and stood moodily silent, then suddenly his fingers closed with a grip that made the old man wince.

“Suffering gods!” muttered the detective, “he’s coming!”

As he spoke the glass door at the foot of the stairs opened and a handsome couple advanced toward them, both dressed in the height of fashion, the woman young and graceful, the man a perfect type of the dashing boulevardier.

“No, no, you’re crazy,” whispered Tignol.

As the couple reached the sidewalk, Coquenil himself hesitated.  In the better light he could see no resemblance between the wood carver and this gentleman with his smart clothes, his glossy silk hat, and his haughty eyeglass.  The wood carver’s hair was yellowish brown, this man’s was dark, tinged with gray; the wood carver wore a beard and mustache, this man was clean shaven—­finally, the wood carver was shorter and heavier than this man.

While the detective wavered, the gentleman stepped forward courteously and opened the door of a waiting coupe.  The lady caught up her silken skirts and was about to enter when Coquenil brushed against her, as if by accident, and her purse fell to the ground.

“Stupid brute!” exclaimed the gentleman angrily, as he bent over and reached for the purse with his gloved hand.

At the same moment Coquenil seized the extended wrist in such fierce and sudden attack that, before the man could think of resisting, he was held helpless with his left arm bent behind him in twisted torture.

“No nonsense, or you’ll break your arm,” he warned his captive as the latter made an ineffectual effort against him.  “Call the others,” he ordered, and Tignol blew a shrill summons.  “Rip off this glove.  I want to see his hand.  Come, come, none of that.  Open it up.  No?  I’ll make you open it.  There, I thought so,” as an excruciating wrench forced the stubborn fist to yield.  “Now then, off with that glove!  Ah!” he cried as the bare hand came to view.  “I thought so.  It’s too bad you couldn’t hide that long little finger!  Tignol, quick with the handcuffs!  There, I think we have you safely landed now, M.  Adolf Groener!”