full at
the break, eyes fixed, body tense; now he was gathering strength to
spring, and now, with a splendid effort, he was actually hurling himself
through the air, when among the confused figures on the coach a man leaned
forward suddenly, and something flashed in his hand. There was a feather
of smoke, a sharp report, and then, with a stab of pain, Coquenil saw
Caesar fall back to the ground and lie still.

"My dog, my dog!" he cried, and coming up to the stricken creature, he
knelt beside him with ashen face.

One glance showed there was nothing to be done, the bullet had crashed into
the broad breast in front of the left shoulder and--it was all over with
Caesar.

"My friend, my dear old friend!" murmured M. Paul in broken tones, and he
took the poor head in his arms. At the master's voice Caesar opened his
beautiful eyes weakly, in a last pitiful appeal, then the lids closed.

"You cowards!" flung out the heartsick man. "You have killed my dog!"

"It was your own fault," said one of the gentlemen coldly, "you had no
business to leave a dangerous animal like that at liberty."

[Illustration: "'My dog, my dog!'"]

M. Paul did not speak or move; he was thinking bitterly of Alice's
presentiment.

Then some one on the break said: "We had better move along, hadn't we,
Raoul?"

"Yes," agreed another. "What a beastly bore!"

And a few moments later, with clanking harness and sounding horn, the gay
party rolled away.

Coquenil sat silent by his dog.

CHAPTER XXI

THE WOOD CARVER

A detective, like an actor or a soldier, must go on fighting and playing
his part, regardless of personal feelings. Sorrow brings him no reprieve
from duty, so the next morning after the last sad offices for poor Caesar,
Coquenil faced the emergency before him with steady nerve and calm
resolution. There was an assassin to be brought to justice and the time for
action had come. This was, perhaps, the most momentous day of his whole
career.

Up to the very hour of luncheon M. Paul doubted whether the wood carver
would keep his appointment at the Bonnetons'. Why should he take such a
risk? Why walk deliberately into a trap that he must suspect? It was true,
Coquenil remembered with chagrin, that this man, if he really was the man,
had once before walked into a trap (there on the Champs Elysees) and had
then walked calmly out again; but this time the detective promised himself
things should happen differently. His precauti