“I was saying,” resumed the other, “that there is a bond between a detective and a criminal—­I suppose it gets stronger between a—­a great detective,” he smiled, “and a great criminal.”

De Heidelmann-Bruck looked pleased.  “You regard me as a great criminal?”

Coquenil nodded gravely.  “I certainly do.  The greatest since Ludovico Schertzi—­you know he had your identical little finger.”

“Really!”

“Yes.  And your absolute lack of feeling about crime.  Never a tremor!  Never a qualm of remorse!  Just cold intelligence!”

“Of course.”  The baron held his left hand close to the candle and looked at it critically.  “Strange about that little finger!  And pretty the way you caught the clew of it on that photographer’s neck.  Poor little devil!”

“What did you do with the boots you were trying to return that night?” questioned the detective.

“Burned them.”

Coquenil was silent a moment.  “And this American?  What of him—­now?”

“He will be tried and——­” The baron shrugged his shoulders.

“And be found guilty?”

“Yes, but—­with jealousy as an extenuating circumstance.  He’ll do a few years, say five.”

“I never saw quite why you put the guilt on him.”

“It had to go on some one and—­he was available.”

“You had nothing against him personally?”

“Oh, no.  He was a pawn in the game.”

“A pawn to be sacrificed—­like Martinez?”

“Exactly.”

“Ah, that brings me to the main point.  How did Martinez get possession of your secret?”

“He met the girl accidentally and—­remembered her.”

“As the one he had rescued from the Charity Bazaar fire?”

“Yes.  You’d better eat a little.  Try some of this cold meat and salad?  My cook makes rather good dressing.”

“No, thanks!  Speaking of cooks, how did you know the name of that canary bird?”

“Ha, ha!  Pete?  I knew it from the husband of the woman who opens the big gate of the Villa Montmorency.  He cleans your windows, you know, and—­he was useful to me.”

“He knew you as—­Groener?”

“Of course.”

“None of these people knew you really?”

“No.”

“Not Dubois?”

“Ah, Dubois knew me, of course, but—­Dubois is an automaton to carry out orders; he never knows what they mean.  Anything else?”

Coquenil thought a moment.  “Oh!  Did you know that private room Number Seven would not be occupied that night by Wilmott and the dancing girl?”

“No.”

“Then how did you dare go in there?”

“Wilmott and the girl were not due until nine and I had—­finished by half past eight.”

“How did you know Wilmott would not be there until nine?”

“Martinez told me.  It was in Anita’s petit bleu that Mrs. Wilmott showed him.”

“Had you no direct dealings with Anita?”