The audience gave a long-troubled sigh, the nobleman sat rigid on his chair, the judge went on with his questions.

“You say you know this?” he demanded sharply.

“I know it,” declared Coquenil, “I have absolute proof of it—­here.”  He drew from his inner coat the baron’s diary and handed it to the judge.

“What is this?” asked the latter.

“His own confession, written by himself and—­Quick!” he cried, and sprang toward the rich man, but Papa Tignol was there before him.  With a bound the old fox had leaped forward from the audience and reached the accused in time to seize and stay his hand.

“Excuse me, your Honor,” apologized the detective, “the man was going to kill himself.”

“It’s false!” screamed the baron.  “I was getting my handkerchief.”

“Here’s the handkerchief,” said Tignol, holding up a pistol.

At this there was fresh tumult in the audience, with men cursing and women shrieking.

The judge turned gravely to De Heidelmann-Bruck.  “I have a painful duty to perform, sir.  Take this man out—­under arrest, and—­clear the room.”

M. Paul sank weakly into a chair and watched idly while the attendants led away the unresisting millionaire, watched keenly as the judge opened the baron’s diary and began to read.  He noted the magistrate’s start of amazement, the eager turning of pages and the increasingly absorbed attention.

“Astounding!  Incredible!” muttered the judge.  “A great achievement!  I congratulate you, M. Coquenil.  It’s the most brilliant coup I have ever known.  It will stir Paris to the depths and make you a—­a hero.”

“Thank you, thank you,” murmured the sick man.

At this moment an awe-struck attendant came forward to say that the baron wished a word with M. Paul.

“By all means,” consented the judge.

Haltingly, on his cane, Coquenil made his way to an adjoining room where De Heidelmann-Bruck was waiting under guard.

As he glanced at the baron, M. Paul saw that once more the man had demonstrated his extraordinary self-control, he was cold and composed as usual.

“We take our medicine, eh?” said the detective admiringly.

“Yes,” answered the prisoner, “we take our medicine.”

“But there’s a difference,” reflected Coquenil.  “The other day you said you were sorry when you left me in that hot cellar.  Now you’re in a fairly hot place yourself, baron, and—­I’m not sorry.”

De Heidelmann-Bruck shrugged his shoulders.

“Any objection to my smoking a cigar?” he asked coolly and reached toward his coat pocket.

With a quick gesture Coquenil stopped the movement.

“I don’t like smoke,” he said with grim meaning.  “If there is anything you want to say, sir, you had better say it.”

“I have only this to say, Coquenil,” proceeded the baron, absolutely unruffled; “we had had our little fight and—­I have lost.  We both did our best with the weapons we had for the ends we hoped to achieve.  I stood for wickedness, you stood for virtue, and virtue has triumphed; but, between ourselves”—­he smiled and shrugged his shoulders—­“they’re both only words and—­it isn’t important, anyhow.”