“And he killed Martinez!” added Tignol.

“Yes.”

For fully a minute the two men faced each other in silence.  M. Paul lighted another cigarette.

“Couldn’t you tell what you know in the newspapers?”

“No newspaper in France would dare to print it,” said Coquenil gravely.

“Perhaps there is some mistake,” suggested the other, “perhaps he isn’t the man.”

The detective opened his table drawer and drew out several photographs. 
“Look at those!”

One by one Tignol studied the photographs.  “It’s the man we arrested, all right—­without the beard.”

“It’s the Baron de Heidelmann-Bruck,” said Coquenil.

Tignol gazed at the pictures with a kind of fascination.

“How many millions did you say he has?”

“A thousand—­or more.”

“A thousand millions!” He screwed up his face again and pulled reflectively on his long red nose.  “And I put the handcuffs on him!  Holy camels!”

Coquenil lighted another cigarette and breathed in the smoke deeply.

“Aren’t you smoking too many of those things?  That makes five in ten minutes.”

M. Paul shrugged his shoulders.  “What’s the difference?”

“I see, you’re thinking out some plan,” approved the other.

“Plan for what?”

“For putting this thousand-million-franc devil where he belongs,” grinned the old man.

The detective eyed his friend keenly.  “Papa Tignol, that’s the prettiest compliment anyone ever paid me.  In spite of all I have said you have confidence that I could do this man up—­somehow, eh?”

“Sure!”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” reflected Coquenil, and a shadow of sadness fell over his pale, weary face.  “Perhaps I could, but—­I’m not going to try.”

“You—­you’re not going to try?”

“No, I’m through, I wash my hands of the case.  The Baron de
Heidelmann-Bruck can sleep easily as far as I am concerned.”

Tignol bounded to his feet and his little eyes flashed indignantly.  “I don’t believe it,” he cried.  “I won’t have it.  You can’t tell me Paul Coquenil is afraid. Are you afraid?”

“I don’t think so,” smiled the other.

“And Paul Coquenil hasn’t been bought?  He can’t be bought—­can he?”

“I hope not.”

“Then—­then what in thunder do you mean,” he demanded fiercely, “by saying you drop this case?”

M. Paul felt in his coat pocket and drew out a folded telegram.  “Read that, old friend,” he answered with emotion, “and—­and thank you for your good opinion.”

Slowly Tignol read the contents of the blue sheet.

   M. PAUL COQUENIL, Villa Montmorency, Paris.

   House and barn destroyed by incendiary fire in night.  Your mother
   saved, but seriously injured.  M. Abel says insurance policy had
   lapsed.  Come at once.