"Exactly. I got his address from Papa Bonneton. I thought I'd look the man over in his home when he was not expecting me. And before I started I put in two days studying wood carving, watching the work and questioning the workmen until I knew more about it than an expert. I made up my mind that, when I saw this man with the long little finger, I must be able to decide whether he was a genuine wood carver—or—or something else."
"I see," admired Tignol. "Well?"
"As it turned out, I didn't find him, I haven't seen him yet. He was away on a trip when I got to Brussels, away on this trip that will bring him to Paris to-morrow, so I missed him and—it's just as well I did!"
"You got facts about him?"
"Yes, I got facts about him; not the kind of facts I expected to get, either. I saw the place where he boards, this Adolph Groener. In fact, I stopped there, and I talked to the woman who runs it, a sharp-eyed young widow with a smooth tongue; and I saw the place where he works; it's a wood-carving shop, all right, and I talked to the men there—two big strong fellows with jolly red faces, and—well—" he hesitated.
"Well?"
The detective crossed his arms and faced the old man with a grim, searching look.
"Papa Tignol," he said impressively, "they all tell a simple, straight story. His name is Adolf Groener, he does live in Brussels, he makes his living at wood carving, and the widow who runs the confounded boarding house knows all about this girl Alice."
Tignol rubbed his nose reflectively. "It was a long shot, anyway."
"What would you have done?" questioned the other sharply.