ou doing here
at this hour?"

"It's a little--er--personal matter," coughed Coquenil discreetly, "partly
about Caesar. Can we sit down somewhere?"

Still wondering, Bonneton led the way to a small room adjoining the
treasure chamber, where a dim lamp was burning; here he and his associates
got alternate snatches of sleep during the night.

"Hey, Francois!" He shook a sleeping figure on a cot bed, and the latter
roused himself and sat up. "It's time to make the round."

Francois looked stupidly at Coquenil and then, with a yawn and a shrug of
indifference, he called to the dog, while Caesar growled his reluctance.

"It's all right, old fellow," encouraged Coquenil, "I'll see you again,"
whereupon Caesar trotted away reassured.

"Take this chair," said the sacristan. "I'll sit on the bed. We don't have
many visitors."

"Now, then," began M. Paul. "I'll come to the dog in a minute--don't worry.
I'm not going to take him away. But first I want to ask about that girl who
sells candles. She boards with you, doesn't she?"

"Yes."

"You know she's in love with this American who's in prison?"

"I know."

"She came to see me the other day."

"She did?"

"Yes, and the result of her visit was--well, it has made a lot of trouble.
What I'm going to say is absolutely between ourselves--you mustn't tell a
soul, least of all your wife."

"You can trust me, M. Paul," declared Papa Bonneton rubbing his hands in
excitement.

"To begin with, who is the man with the long little finger that she told me
about?" He put the questions carelessly, as if it were of no particular
moment.

"Why, that's Groener," answered Bonneton simply.

"Groener? Oh, her cousin?"

"Yes."

"I'm interested," went on the detective with the same indifferent air,
"because I have a collection of plaster hands at my house--I'll show it to
you some day--and there's one with a long little finger that the candle
girl noticed. Is her cousin's little finger really very long?"

"It's pretty long," said Bonneton. "I used to think it had been stretched
in some machine. You know he's a wood carver."

"I know. Well, that's neither here nor there. The point is, this girl had a
dream that--why, what's the matter?"

"Don't talk to me about her dreams!" exclaimed the sacristan. "She used to
have us scared to death with 'em. My wife won't let her tell 'em any more,
and it's a good thing she won't." For a mild man he spoke with surprising
vehemence.

"Bonn