"Have your joke, if you will, but," he turned with sudden directness, "don't you remember when we had a blood-red sky like that? Ah, you don't laugh now!"
It was true, Coquenil's look had deepened into one of somber reminiscence.
"You mean the murders in the Rue Montaigne?"
"Pre-cisely."
"Pooh! A foolish fancy! How many red sunsets have there been since we found those two poor women stretched out in their white-and-gold salon? Well, I must get on. Come to-night at nine. There will be news for you."
"News for me," echoed the old man. "Au revoir, M. Paul," and he watched the slender, well-knit figure as the detective moved across the Place Notre-Dame, snapping his fingers playfully at the splendid animal that bounded beside him and speaking to the dog in confidential friendliness.
"We'll show 'em, eh, Cæsar?" And the dog answered with eager barking and quick-wagging tail.
