above the brown-and-gold wainscoting, or out into the
garden through the long, open windows; he was searching, searching for
something, she knew the signs, and with a sigh she took away her most
tempting dishes untasted.

At eight o'clock the detective rose from the table and withdrew into his
study, a large room opening off the dining room and furnished like no other
study in the world. Around the walls were low bookcases with wide tops on
which were spread, under glass, what Coquenil called his criminal museum.
This included souvenirs of cases on which he had been engaged, wonderful
sets of burglars' tools, weapons used by murderers--saws, picks, jointed
jimmies of tempered steel, that could be taken apart and folded up in the
space of a thick cigar and hidden about the person. Also a remarkable
collection of handcuffs from many countries and periods in history. Also a
collection of letters of criminals, some in cipher, with confessions of
prisoners and last words of suicides. Also plaster casts of hands of famous
criminals. And photographs of criminals, men and women, with faces often
distorted to avoid recognition. And various grewsome objects, a card case
of human skin, and the twisted scarf used by a strangler.

As for the shelves underneath, they contained an unequaled special library
of subjects interesting to a detective, both science and fiction being
freely drawn upon in French, English, and German, for, while Coquenil was a
man of action in a big way, he was also a student and a reader of books,
and he delighted in long, lonely evenings, when, as now, he sat in his
comfortable study thinking, thinking.

Melanie entered presently with coffee and cigarettes, which she placed on a
table near the green-shaded lamp, within easy reach of the great
red-leather chair where M. Paul was seated. Then she stole out
noiselessly. It was five minutes past eight, and for an hour Coquenil
thought and smoked and drank coffee. Occasionally he frowned and moved
impatiently, and several times he took off his glasses and stroked his
brows over the eyes.

Finally he gave a long sigh of relief, and shutting his hands and throwing
out his arms with a satisfied gesture, he rose and walked to the fireplace,
over which hung a large portrait of his mother and several photographs, one
of these taken in the exact attitude and costume of the painting of
Whistler's mother in the Luxembourg gallery. M. Paul was proud of the
striking rese