This was the first of many visits to the hospital by the devoted commissary and of many anxious hours at that distressed bedside.  Before midnight Coquenil was in raging delirium with a temperature of one hundred and five, and the next morning, when Pougeot called, the doctor looked grave.  They were in for a siege of brain fever with erysipelas to be fought off, if possible.

Poor Coquenil!  His body was in torture and his mind in greater torture.  Over and over again, those days, he lived through his struggle with the fire, he rescued Alice, he played with the fairies, he went back after the doll.  Over and over again!

And when the fever fell and his mind grew calm, there followed a period of nervous exhaustion when his stomach refused to do its work, when his heart, for nothing at all, would leap into fits of violent beating.  Pougeot could not even see him now, and the doctor would make no promise as to how soon it would be safe to mention the case to him.  Perhaps not for weeks!

For weeks!  And, meantime, Lloyd Kittredge had been placed on trial for the murder of Martinez and the evidence seemed overwhelmingly against him; in fact, the general opinion was that the young American would be found guilty.

What should the commissary do?

For a week the trial dragged slowly with various delays and adjournments, during which time, to Pougeot’s delight, Coquenil began to mend rapidly.  The doctor assured the commissary that in a few days he should have a serious talk with the patient.  A few days!  Unfortunately, the trial began to march along during these days—­they dispose of murder cases expeditiously in France—­and, to make matters worse, Coquenil suffered a relapse, so that the doctor was forced to retract his promise.

What should the commissary do?

In this emergency Coquenil himself came unexpectedly to Pougeot’s relief; instead of the apathy or indifference he had shown for days, he suddenly developed his old keen interest in the case, and one morning insisted on knowing how things were going and what the prospects were.  In vain doctor and nurse objected and reasoned; the patient only insisted the more strongly, he wished to have a talk with M. Pougeot at once.  And, as the danger of opposing him was felt to be greater than that of yielding, it resulted that M. Paul had his way, Pougeot came to his bedside and stayed an hour—­two hours, until the doctor absolutely ordered him away; but, after luncheon, the detective took the bit in his teeth and told the doctor plainly that, with or without permission, he was going to do his work.  He had learned things that he should have known long ago and there was not an hour to lose.  A man’s life was at stake, and—­his stomach, his nerves, his heart, and his other organs might do what they pleased, he proposed to save that life.

Before this uncompromising attitude the doctor could only bow gracefully, and when he was told by Pougeot (in strictest confidence) that this gaunt and irascible patient, whom he had known as M. Martin, was none other than the celebrated Paul Coquenil, he comforted himself with the thought that, after all, a resolute mind can often do wonders with a weak body.