"I see, I see," reflected the old man. "And Alice? Does she know that—that she isn't Alice?"
"No."
"Does she know that Groener is her stepfather, and not her cousin?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I think I know why not, but, until I'm sure, I'd rather call it a mystery. See here, we've talked too much, you must hurry back to her. Better take an auto. And remember, Papa Tignol," he added in final warning, "there is nothing so important as to guard this girl."
A few moments later, with Cæsar bounding happily at his side, M. Paul entered the quieter paths of the great park, and presently came to a thickly wooded region that has almost the air of a natural forest. Here the two romped delightedly together, and Coquenil put the dog through many of his tricks, the fine creature fairly outdoing himself in eagerness and intelligence.
"Now, old fellow," said M. Paul, "I'll sit down here and have a cigarette," and he settled himself on a rustic bench, while Cæsar stretched out comfortably at his feet. And so the one dozed as the other drifted far away in smoke-laden reverie.
What days these had been, to be sure! How tired he was! He hadn't noticed it before, but now that everything was ready, now that he had finished his preparations—yes, he was very tired.
Everything was ready! It was good to know that. He had forgotten nothing. And, if all went well, he would soon be able to answer these questions that were fretting him. Who was Groener? Why had he killed Martinez? How had he profited by the death of this unfortunate billiard player? And why did he hate Kittredge? Was it because the American loved Alice? And who was Alice, this girl whose dreams and fears changed the lives of serious men? From whichever side he studied the crime he always came back to her—Kittredge loved her, Martinez knew her, he himself had started on the case on her account. Who was Alice?