"I don't know. This dog has done wonderful things. He tracked a murderer once three miles across rough country near Liége and found him hidden in a barn. But he had better conditions there. We'll see."
They had entered the courtyard now and Coquenil led Cæsar to the spot where the weapon lay still undisturbed.
"Cherche!" he ordered, and the dog nosed the pistol with concentrated effort. Then silently, anxiously, one would say, he darted away, circling the courtyard back and forth, sniffing the ground as he went, pausing occasionally or retracing his steps and presently stopping before M. Paul with a little bark of disappointment.
"Nothing, eh? Quite right. Give me the pistol, Papa Tignol. We'll try outside. There!" He pointed to the open door where the concierge was waiting. "Now then, cherche!"
In an instant Cæsar was out in the Rue Marboeuf, circling again and again in larger and larger arcs, as he had been taught, back and forth, until he had covered a certain length of street and sidewalk, every foot of the space between opposite walls, then moving on for another length and then for another, looking up at his master now and then for a word of encouragement.
"'Cherche!' he ordered."
"It's a hard test," muttered Coquenil. "Footprints and weapons have lain for hours in a drenching rain, but—Ah!" Cæsar had stopped with a little whine and was half crouching at the edge of the sidewalk, head low, eyes fiercely forward, body quivering with excitement. "He's found something!"
The dog turned with quick, joyous barks.