mportant decision of my life,"
continued the detective, "and I want you to know about it. You are the only
person in the world who _will_ know--everything. So listen! This afternoon
I went into Notre-Dame church and I saw a young girl there who sells
candles. I didn't know her, but she looked up in a queer way, as if she
wanted to speak to me, so I went to her and--well, she told me of a dream
she had last night."

"A dream?" snorted the commissary.

"So she said. She may have been lying or she may have been put up to it; I
know nothing about her, not even her name, but that's of no consequence;
the point is that in this dream, as she called it, she brought together the
two most important events in my life."

"Hm! What _was_ the dream?"

"She says she saw me twice, once in a forest near a wooden bridge where a
man with a beard was talking to a woman and a little girl. Then she saw me
on a boat going to a place where there were black people."

"That was Brazil?"

"I suppose so. And there was a burning sun with a wicked face inside that
kept looking down at me. She says she often dreams of this wicked face, she
sees it first in a distant star that comes nearer and nearer, until it gets
to be large and red and angry. As the face comes closer her fear grows,
until she wakes with a start of terror; she says she would die of fright if
the face ever reached her _before_ she awoke. That's about all."

For some moments the commissary did not speak. "Did she try to interpret
this dream?"

"No."

"Why did she tell you about it?"

"She acted on a sudden impulse, so she says. I'm inclined to believe her;
but never mind that. Pougeot," he rose in agitation and stood leaning over
his friend, "in that forest scene she brought up something that isn't
known, something I've never even told you, my best friend."

"_Tiens!_ What is that?"

"You think I resigned from the police force two years ago, don't you?"

"Of course."

"Everyone thinks so. Well, it isn't true. I didn't resign; _I was
discharged._"

M. Pougeot stared in bewilderment, as if words failed him, and finally he
repeated weakly: "Discharged! Paul Coquenil discharged!"

[Illustration: "'I _didn't_ resign; _I was discharged_.'"]

"Yes, sir, discharged from the Paris detective force for refusing to arrest
a murderer--that's how the accusation read."

"But it wasn't true?"

"Judge for yourself. It was the case of a poacher who killed a guard. I
don't suppo