“No, no!  How stupid you are!” And then in confusion:  “I beg a thousand pardons, I am nervous.  I thought I told you plainly it was the end window.”

“Thanks, my good woman,” replied M. Paul.  “Now go right back to your room and don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“But,” she stammered, “would monsieur be so kind as to say what the bright object was?”

The detective bent nearer and whispered mysteriously:  “It was a comb, a silver comb!”

“Mon Dieu! A silver comb!” exclaimed the unsuspecting spinster.

“Now back to your room and finish brushing your hair,” he urged, and the woman hurried away trembling with excitement.

A few moments later Coquenil and the commissary and Papa Tignol were standing in the courtyard near two green tubs of foliage plants between which the pistol had fallen.  The doorkeeper of the house, a crabbed individual who had only become mildly respectful when he learned that he was dealing with the police, had joined them, his crustiness tempered by curiosity.

“See here,” said the detective, addressing him, “do you want to earn five francs?” The doorkeeper brightened.  “I’ll make it ten”, continued the other, “if you do exactly what I say.  You are to take a cab, here is the money, and drive to Notre-Dame.  At the right of the church is a high iron railing around the archbishop’s house.  In the railing is an iron gate with a night bell for Extreme Unction.  Ring this bell and ask to see the sacristan Bonneton, and when he comes out give him this.”  Coquenil wrote hastily on a card.  “It’s an order to let you have a dog named Caesar—­my dog—­he’s guarding the church with Bonneton.  Pat Caesar and tell him he’s going to see M. Paul, that’s me.  Tell him to jump in the cab and keep still.  He’ll understand—­he knows more than most men.  Then drive back here as quick as you can.”

The doorkeeper touched his cap and departed.

Coquenil turned to Tignol.  “Watch the pistol.  When the doorkeeper comes back send him over to the hotel.  I’ll be there.”

“Right,” nodded the old man.

Then the detective said to Pougeot:  “I must talk to Gritz.  You know him, don’t you?”

The commissary glanced at his watch.  “Yes, but do you realize it’s after three o’clock?”

“Never mind, I must see him.  A lot depends on it.  Get him out of bed for me, Lucien, and—­then you can go home.”

“I’ll try,” grumbled the other, “but what in Heaven’s name are you going to do with that dog?”

“Use him,” answered Coquenil.

CHAPTER VII

THE FOOTPRINTS