I am afraid of this girl’s dreams!  I can control her body, and when she is awake, I can more or less control her mind.  But I cannot control her dreams.  Sometimes, when I look into the depths of her strange, beautiful eyes, it seems to me she knows things or half knows them with some other self.  I am afraid of her dreams!

Coquenil had reached this point in his reading and was pressing on through the pages, utterly oblivious to everything, when a harsh voice broke in upon him:  “You seem to have an interesting book, my friend?”

Looking up with a start, M. Paul saw De Heidelmann-Bruck himself standing in the open doorway.  His hands were thrust carelessly in his coat pockets and a mocking smile played about his lips, the smile that Coquenil had learned to fear.

“It’s more than interesting, it’s marvelous, it’s unbelievable,” answered the detective quietly.  “Please shut that door.  There’s a draught coming in.”

As he spoke he sneezed twice and reached naturally toward his coat as if for a handkerchief.

“No, no!  None of that!” warned the other sharply.  “Hands up!” And Coquenil obeyed.  “My pistol is on you in this side pocket.  If you move, I’ll shoot through the cloth.”

“That’s a cowboy trick; you must have traveled in the Far West,” said M. Paul lightly.

“Stand over there!” came the order.  “Face against the wall!  Hands high!  Now keep still!”

Coquenil did as he was bidden.  He stood against the wall while quick fingers went through his clothes, he felt his pistol taken from him, then something soft and wet pressed under his nostrils.  He gasped and a sweetish, sickening breath filled his lungs, he tried to struggle, but iron arms held him helpless.  He felt himself drifting into unconsciousness and strove vainly against it.  He knew he had lost the battle, there was nothing to hope for from this man—­nothing.  Well—­it had been a finish fight and—­one or the other had to go. He was the one, he was going—­going.  He—­he couldn’t fix his thoughts.  What queer lights!  Hey, Caesar!  How silly!  Caesar was dead—­Oh! he must tell Papa Tignol that—­a man shouldn’t swear so with a—­red—­nose.  Stop! this must be the—­end and——­

With a last rally of his darkening consciousness, Coquenil called up his mother’s face and, looking at it through the eyes of his soul, he spoke to her across the miles, in a wild, voiceless cry:  “I did the best I could, little mother, the—­the best I—­could.”

Then utter blackness!

CHAPTER XXVIII

A GREAT CRIMINAL

Coquenil came back to consciousness his first thought was that the adventure had brought him no pain; he moved his arms and legs and discovered no injury, then he reached out a hand and found that he was lying on a cold stone floor with his head on a rough sack filled apparently with shavings.