To his surprise, however, the detective was not only up and dressed, but he was on his knees in the study before a large leather bag into which he was hastily throwing various garments brought down by the faithful Melanie, whose joy at having her master home again was evidently clouded by this prospect of an imminent departure.
"Ah, Papa Tignol!" said M. Paul as the old man entered, but there was no heartiness in his tone. "Sit down, sit down."
Tignol sank back in one of the red-leather chairs and waited wonderingly. This was not the buoyant reception he had expected.
"Is anything wrong?" he asked finally.
"Why—er—why, yes," nodded Coquenil, but he went on packing and did not say what was wrong. And Tignol did not ask.
"Going away?" he ventured after a silence.
M. Paul shut the bag with a jerk and tightened the side straps, then he threw himself wearily into a chair.
"Yes, I—I'm going away."
The detective leaned back and closed his eyes, he looked worn and gray. Tignol watched him anxiously through a long silence. What could be the trouble? What had happened? He had never seen M. Paul like this, so broken and—one would say, discouraged. And this was the moment of his triumph, the proudest moment in his career. It must be the reaction from these days of strain, yes that was it.
M. Paul opened his eyes and said in a dull tone: "Did you take the girl to Pougeot last night?"