"And Paul Coquenil hasn't been bought? He can't be bought—can he?"
"I hope not."
"Then—then what in thunder do you mean," he demanded fiercely, "by saying you drop this case?"
M. Paul felt in his coat pocket and drew out a folded telegram. "Read that, old friend," he answered with emotion, "and—and thank you for your good opinion."
Slowly Tignol read the contents of the blue sheet.
M. PAUL COQUENIL, Villa Montmorency, Paris.
House and barn destroyed by incendiary fire in night. Your mother saved, but seriously injured. M. Abel says insurance policy had lapsed. Come at once.
ERNESTINE.
"Quel malheur! Quel malheur!" exclaimed the old man. "My poor M. Paul! Forgive me! I'm a stupid fool," and he grasped his companion's hand in quick sympathy.
"It's all right, you didn't understand," said the other gently.