To see the spruce little scientist among the children was a revelation to me. Always tart of speech to the verge of bitterness, with a keen, mordant wit which cut like a razor or scratched like a briar, de Grandin seemed the last one to glean information from children naturally timid in the presence of a doctor. But his smile grew brighter and brighter and his humor better and better as child after child entered the office, answered a few seemingly idle questions and passed from the room. At length a little girl, some four or five years old, came in, the hem of her blue pinafore twisted between her plump baby fingers in embarrassment.

“Ah,” de Grandin breathed, “here is one from whom we shall obtain something of value, my friend, or I much miss my guess.

“Holà, ma petite tête de chou!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers at the tot. “Come hither and tell Dr. de Grandin all about it!”

His “little cabbage-head” gave him an answering smile, but one of somewhat doubtful quality. “Dr. Grandin not hurt Betsy?” she asked, half confidently, half fearsomely.

“Parbleu, not I, my pigeon,” he replied as he lifted her to the desk. “Regardez-vous!” from the pocket of his jacket he produced a little box of bonbons and thrust them into her chubby hand. “Eat them, my little onion,” he commanded. “Tête du diable, but they are an excellent medicine for loosening the tongue!”

Nothing loth, the little girl began munching the sweetmeats, regarding her new friend with wide, wondering eyes. “They said you would hurt me—cut my tongue out with a knife if I talked to you,” she informed him, then paused to pop another chocolate button into her mouth.

“Mort d’un chat, did they, indeed?” he demanded. “And who was the vile, detestable one who so slandered Jules de Grandin? I shall—s-s-sh!” he interrupted himself, turning and crossing the office in three long, catlike leaps. At the entrance he paused a moment, then grasped the handle and jerked the door suddenly open.

On the sill, looking decidedly surprised, stood Mr. Gervaise.

“Ah, Monsieur,” de Grandin’s voice held an ugly, rasping note as he glared directly into the superintendent’s eyes, “you are perhaps seeking for something? Yes?”

“Er—yes,” Gervaise coughed softly, dropping his gaze before the Frenchman’s blazing stare. “Er—that is—you see, I left my pencil here this morning, and I didn’t think you’d mind if I came to get it. I was just going to rap when—”