The baron shook his head.  “I never saw the girl.  The thing just happened and—­I took my chance.”

“You bought the auger for Martinez and told him where to bore the holes?”

“Yes.”

“And the key to the alleyway door?”

“I got a duplicate key—­through Dubois.  Anything else?”

“It’s all very clever,” reflected M. Paul, “but—­isn’t it too clever?  Too complicated?  Why didn’t you get rid of this billiard player in some simpler way?”

“A natural question,” agreed De Heidelmann-Bruck.  “I could have done it easily in twenty ways—­twenty stupid safe ways.  But don’t you see that is what I didn’t want?  It was necessary to suppress Martinez, but, in suppressing him as I did, there was also good sport.  And when a man has everything, Coquenil, good sport is mighty rare.”

“I see, I see,” murmured the detective.  “And you let Alice live all these years for the same reason?”

“Yes.”

“The wood-carver game diverted you?”

“Precisely.  It put a bit of ginger into existence.”  He paused, and half closing his eyes, added musingly:  “I’ll miss it now.  And I’ll miss the zest of fighting you.”

“Ah!” said Coquenil.  “By the way, how long have you known that I was working here in your stable?”

The baron smiled.  “Since the first day.”

“And—­you knew about the valet?”

“Naturally.”

“And about the safe?”

“It was all arranged.”

“Then—­then you wanted me to read the diary?”

“Yes,” answered the other with a strange expression.  “I knew that if you read my diary I should be protected.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course not, but—­” Suddenly his voice grew harsher and M. Paul thought of the meeting on the Champs Elysees.  “Do you realize, sir,” the baron went on, and his voice was almost menacing, “that not once but half a dozen times since this affair started, I have been on the point of crushing you, of sweeping you out of my path?”

“I can believe that.”

“Why haven’t I done it?  Why have I held back the order that was trembling on my lips?  Because I admire you, I’m interested in the workings of your mind, I, yes, by God, in spite of your stubbornness and everything, I like you, Coquenil, and I don’t want to harm you.

“You may not believe it,” he went on, “but when you sent word to the Brazilian Embassy the other day that you would accept the Rio Janeiro offer, after all, I was honestly happy for you, not for myself.  What did it matter to me?  I was relieved to know that you were out of danger, that you had come to your senses.  Then suddenly you went mad again and, and did this.  So I said to myself:  ‘All right, he wants it, he’ll get it,’ and, I let you read the diary.”

“Why?”

“Why?” cried the baron hoarsely.  “Don’t you see why?  You know everything now, everything.  It isn’t guesswork, it isn’t deduction, it’s absolute certainty.  You have seen my confession, you know that I killed Martinez, that I robbed this girl of her fortune, that I am going to let an innocent man suffer in my place.  You know that to be true, don’t you?”