ng a vest!

He stood looking at the house without ringing. M. Bernardet was, no
doubt, breakfasting with his family, for it was Sunday, and the police
officer, meeting Moniche the evening before, had said to him:
"To-morrow is my birthday."

Moniche hesitated a moment, then he rang the bell. He was not kept
waiting; the sudden opening of the grating startled him; he pushed back
the door and entered. He crossed a little court, at the end of which was
a pavilion; he mounted the three steps and was met on the threshold by a
little woman, as rosy and fresh as an apple, who, napkin in hand, gayly
saluted him.

"Eh, Monsieur Moniche!"

It was Mme. Bernardet, a Burgundian woman, about thirty-five years of
age, trim and coquettish, who stepped back so that the tailor could
enter.

"What is the matter, M. Moniche?"

Poor Moniche rolled his frightened eyes around and gasped out: "I must
speak to M. Bernardet."

"Nothing easier," said the little woman. "M. Bernardet is in the garden.
Yes, he is taking advantage of the beautiful day; he is taking a
group"----

"What group?"

"You know very well, photography is his passion. Come with me."

And Mme. Bernardet pointed to the end of the corridor, where an open
door gave a glimpse of the garden at the rear of the house. M.
Bernardet, the Inspector, had posed his three daughters with their
mother about a small table, on which coffee had been served.

"I had just gone in to get my napkin, when I heard you ring," Mme.
Bernardet said.

Bernardet made a sign to Moniche not to advance. He was as plump and as
gay as his wife. His moustache was red, his double chin smooth-shaven
and rosy, his eyes had a sharp, cunning look, his head was round and
closely cropped.

The three daughters, clothed alike in Scotch plaid, were posing in front
of a photographic apparatus which stood on a tripod. The eldest was
about twelve years of age; the youngest a child of five. They were all
three strangely alike.

M. Bernardet, in honor of his birthday, was taking a picture of his
daughters. The ferret who, from morning till night, tracked robbers and
malefactors into their hiding places, was taking his recreation in his
damp garden. The sweet idyl of this hidden life repaid him for his
unceasing investigations, for his trouble and fatiguing man-hunts
through Paris.

"There!" he said, clapping the cap over the lens. "That is all! Go and
play now, my dears. I am at your service, Moniche."