s nothing
more to say. You have my letter--_for her_. You'll explain that it isn't
safe for me to write through the post office. And she mustn't try to write
me. I'll come to her as soon as I can. You have the money for her; say I
want her to buy a new dress, a nice one, and if there's anything else she
wants, why, she must have it. Understand?"

Tignol nodded.

Then, dropping the cab window, M. Paul told the driver to stop, and they
drew up before the terraced fountains of the Trinite church.

"Good-by and good luck," said Coquenil, clasping Tignol's hand, "and--don't
let her worry."

The cab rolled on, and M. Paul, bag in hand, strode down a side street; but
just at the corner he turned and looked after the hurrying vehicle, and his
eyes were full of sadness and yearning.

* * * * *

Tuesday, the fourteenth of July! The great French holiday! All Paris in the
streets, bands playing, soldiers marching, everybody happy or looking
happy! And from early morning all trains, 'buses, cabs, automobiles, in
short, all moving things in the gay city were rolling a jubilant multitude
toward the Bois de Boulogne, where the President of the Republique was to
review the troops before a million or so of his fellow-citizens. Coquenil
had certainly chosen the busiest end of Paris for his meeting with Papa
Tignol.

Their rendezvous was at noon, but two hours earlier Tignol took the train
at the St. Lazare station. And with him came Caesar, such a changed,
unrecognizable Caesar! Poor dog! His beautiful, glossy coat of brown and
white had been clipped to ridiculous shortness, and he crouched at the old
man's feet in evident humiliation.

"It was a shame, old fellow," said Tignol consolingly, "but we had to obey
orders, eh? Never mind, it will grow out again."

Leaving the train at Auteuil, they walked down the Rue La Fontaine to a
tavern near the Rue Mozart, where the old man left Caesar in charge of the
proprietor, a friend of his. It was now a quarter to eleven, and Tignol
spent the next hour riding back and forth on the circular railway between
Auteuil and various other stations; he did this because Coquenil had
charged him to be sure he was not followed; he felt reasonably certain that
he was not, but he wished to be absolutely certain.

So he rode back to the Avenue Henri Martin, where he crossed the platform
and boarded a returning train for the Champs de Mars, telling the guard he
had made