Extraordinary danger! Why did this sense of imminent peril haunt him and fascinate him?  What was there in this crime that made it different from many other crimes on which he had been engaged?  Those holes through the wall?  Well, yes, he had never seen anything quite like that.  And the billiard player’s motive in boring the holes and the woman’s role and the intricacy and ingenuity of the murderer’s plan—­all these offered an extraordinary problem.  And it certainly was strange that this candle-selling girl with the dreams and the purplish eyes had appeared again as the suspected American’s sweetheart!  He had heard this from Papa Tignol, and how Alice had stood ready to brave everything for her lover when Gibelin marched him off to prison.  Poor Gibelin!

So Coquenil’s thoughts ran along as he neared the Place de l’Etoile.  Well, it was too late to draw back.  He had made his decision and he must abide by it, his commission was signed, his duty lay before him.  By nine o’clock he must be at the Palais de Justice to report to Hauteville.  No use going home.  Better have a rubdown and a cold plunge at the haman, then a turn on the mat with the professional wrestler, and then a few hours sleep.  That would put him in shape for the day’s work with its main business of running down this woman in the case, this lady of the cloak and leather bag, whose name and address he fortunately had.  Ah, he looked forward to his interview with her!  And he must prepare for it!

Coquenil was just glancing about for a cab to the Turkish bath place, in fact he was signaling one that he saw jogging up the Avenue de la Grande Armee, when he became aware that a gentleman was approaching him with the intention of speaking.  Turning quickly, he saw in the uncertain light a man of medium height with a dark beard tinged with gray, wearing a loose black cape overcoat and a silk hat.  The stranger saluted politely and said with a slight foreign accent:  “How are you, M. Louis?  I have been expecting you.”

The words were simple enough, yet they contained a double surprise for Coquenil.  He was at a loss to understand how he could have been expected here where he had come by the merest accident, and, certainly, this was the first time in twenty years that anyone, except his mother, had addressed him as Louis.  He had been christened Louis Paul, but long ago he had dropped the former name, and his most intimate friends knew him only as Paul Coquenil.

“How do you know that my name is Louis?” answered the detective with a sharp glance.

“I know a great deal about you,” answered the other, and then with significant emphasis:  “I know that you are interested in dreams.  May I walk along with you?”

“You may,” said Coquenil, and at once his keen mind was absorbed in this new problem.  Instinctively he felt that something momentous was preparing.

“Rather clever, your getting on that cab to-night,” remarked the other.