M. Paul thought a moment. "The fourteenth of July! Our national holiday! And the crime was committed on the American Independence Day. Strange, isn't it?"
"There will be a great crowd about."
"There's safety in a crowd. Besides, I've got to suit my time to his."
"Then you really expect to see—him?" questioned the old man.
"Yes," nodded the other briefly. "Remember this, don't join me on Tuesday or speak to me or make any sign to me unless you are absolutely sure you have not been followed. If you are in any doubt, put your message under the dog's collar and let him find me. By the way, you'd better have Cæsar clipped. It's a pity, but—it's safer."
Now they were rattling up the Rue Lafayette in the full light of day.
"Ten minutes to six," remarked Tignol. "My train leaves at six forty."
"You'll have time to get breakfast. I'll leave you now. There'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 Trinité church.