Hauteville hurried to the open window and stood there listening.  Just below him in the courtyard he made out of the flashing helmet and imposing uniform of a mounted garde de Paris.  And he caught some quick words that made him start.

“A messenger from the Prime Minister,” muttered the judge, “on urgent business with me.”

Groener heard and, with a long sigh, sank back against the chair and closed his eyes, but Coquenil noticed uneasily that just a flicker of the old patronizing smile was playing about his pallid lips.

CHAPTER XXVI

COQUENIL’S MOTHER

In accordance with orders, Papa Tignol appeared at the Villa Montmorency betimes the next morning.  It was a perfect summer’s day and the old man’s heart was light as he walked up the Avenue des Tilleuls, past vine-covered walls and smiling gardens.

“Eh, eh!” he chuckled, “it’s good to be alive on a day like this and to know what I know.”

He was thinking, with a delicious thrill, of the rapid march of events in the last twenty-four hours, of the keen pursuit, the tricks and disguises, the anxiety and the capture and then of the great coup of the evening. Bon dieu, what a day!

And now the chase was over!  The murderer was tucked away safely in a cell at the depot.  Ouf, he had given them some bad moments, this wood carver!  But for M. Paul they would never have caught the slippery devil, never!  Ah, what a triumph for M. Paul!  He would have the whole department bowing down to him now.  And Gibelin!  Eh, eh!  Gibelin!

Tignol closed the iron gate carefully behind him and walked down the graveled walk with as little crunching as possible.  He had an idea that Coquenil might still be sleeping and if anyone in Paris had earned a long sleep it was Paul Coquenil.

To his surprise, however, the detective was not only up and dressed, but he was on his knees in the study before a large leather bag into which he was hastily throwing various garments brought down by the faithful Melanie, whose joy at having her master home again was evidently clouded by this prospect of an imminent departure.

“Ah, Papa Tignol!” said M. Paul as the old man entered, but there was no heartiness in his tone.  “Sit down, sit down.”

Tignol sank back in one of the red-leather chairs and waited wonderingly.  This was not the buoyant reception he had expected.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked finally.

“Why—­er—­why, yes,” nodded Coquenil, but he went on packing and did not say what was wrong.  And Tignol did not ask.

“Going away?” he ventured after a silence.

M. Paul shut the bag with a jerk and tightened the side straps, then he threw himself wearily into a chair.

“Yes, I—­I’m going away.”

The detective leaned back and closed his eyes, he looked worn and gray.  Tignol watched him anxiously through a long silence.  What could be the trouble?  What had happened?  He had never seen M. Paul like this, so broken and—­one would say, discouraged.  And this was the moment of his triumph, the proudest moment in his career.  It must be the reaction from these days of strain, yes that was it.