Tignol answered slowly, with objecting nod: "It's too red. And it's barred
with purple!"

"Like your nose. Ha, ha!" And Coquenil's face lighted gaily. "Forgive me,
Papa Tignol."

"Have your joke, if you will, but," he turned with sudden directness,
"don't you _remember_ when we had a blood-red sky like that? Ah, you don't
laugh now!"

It was true, Coquenil's look had deepened into one of somber reminiscence.

"You mean the murders in the Rue Montaigne?"

"Pre-cisely."

"Pooh! A foolish fancy! How many red sunsets have there been since we found
those two poor women stretched out in their white-and-gold _salon_? Well, I
must get on. Come to-night at nine. There will be news for you."

"News for me," echoed the old man. "_Au revoir_, M. Paul," and he watched
the slender, well-knit figure as the detective moved across the Place
Notre-Dame, snapping his fingers playfully at the splendid animal that
bounded beside him and speaking to the dog in confidential friendliness.

"We'll show 'em, eh, Caesar?" And the dog answered with eager barking and
quick-wagging tail.

[Illustration: "'We'll show 'em, eh, Caesar?'"]