tle dashed by Dobson's lack of enthusiasm. "In this case, however, there is, as you say, no evidence of any kind—yet. We must therefore look for it, before it sneaks up on us and bites us. Ah, my dear friend. Think! Consider! Reflect! Why, the thing is as clear as a piece of crystal."
"What suggestions have you to make?" asked the major, visibly impressed. "I suppose you have in mind some plan—."
"Oui!" cried Peret, with fierce enthusiasm. "Except for one little thing, I ask that you give me a free hand. I will either prove or disprove my theory within twenty-four hours. Your men in the meantime, can make an independent investigation."
He made several hieroglyphics on a page torn from his memorandum book and handed it to the major. Dobson studied the characters for a moment, and then nodded.
"All right," he said briskly. "I give you a free hand. Call headquarters when you want, and in the meantime let me know at the earliest possible moment, if you learn anything of importance. Allez—vous-en."
"Remember—no arrests!" hissed Peret, and, clapping his hat on the back of his head, he fled from the house as if pursued by the devil himself.
CHAPTER V.
THE HOUSE OF THE WOLF.
JULES PERET was a man of parts. Born in the slums of Paris, he had migrated to America at an early age and, following the vicissitudes of a dissipated youth, had, by the sheer power of will and ability, forced himself to the top of the ladder of success in his chosen profession.
Eccentric, high-strung and affected, he was nevertheless something of a genius in his particular line. As a plainclothes man under the command of Major Dobson, his success had been outstanding. This was largely due to his love of the dramatic, and his knack of making the most unpretentious case assume huge proportions in the eyes of the public.
His methods were simple, apparently infallible, always spectacular. For which reason the newspapers gave him much space on their front pages and delighted in referring to him as the Terrible Frog and the Devil's Sister—appellations, by the way, that had their origin in the dives of the underworld.
Three months ago Peret had severed his connections with police headquarters and established himself as a "consulting detective." And because of the enviable record he had made while serving his apprenticeship on the "force," he had at once found his services in great demand.
At this time Peret was about thirty-four years of age. A small effeminate man, with delicate features, small hands and feet, rosy cheeks and trick eye-brows, one would have taken him for almost anything in the world but a detective. In manner and dress, he was typical of the boulevardiers of Paris. He affected a slender black mustache about the same general size and shape of a pointed match-stick, and he had a weakness for pearl-striped trousers and lavender spats.
Exteriors, however, are sometimes deceiving, and this was true in the case of the little Frenchman. When aroused, Peret was like a tiger. It was not for nothing that he had earned his terrible noms de guerre in the world of crime.
Erratic in manner as in dress, his departure—or, rather, his flight—from the home of the murdered scientist, was as distinctive of the man as was his mustache. The mirth of the coroner and the astonishment of Deweese meant nothing to him. He was too wrapped up in his own thoughts for the moment to consider
