"But whose is this?" I ask.

"Come now," says Father Time, bending his mantis-frame toward me. "You must recognize the hand. It's your father's ! "

CHAPTE R 27.

A Boy Named Hector Wi th a s how of reluctance, Vidocq takes up the green calf 's-leather sketchbook from his desk. Gives the spine a stroke, inspects the residue on his finger. Then inspects the even grubbier prospect of Father Time, surely as unlikely a visitor as his office has seen in some time.

"Professor Corneille, is it?"

The old man has been studying an etching of Francois Villon so intently that the sound of Vidocq's voice makes him jump like a puppet.

"Oh, my! Yes. That's the name."

"I want to be sure I have this right. Twenty-three years ago, you and Hector's father decided to-bury this journal in the middle of the woods."

"Indeed."

"Now maybe you can tell me why."

"Why? Because we didn't want the authorities to find it! If any of the Jacobins had known the-the full extent of Dr. Carpentier's sympathies for the royal family, he might have been arrested. At the very least! Not to mention Monsieur Leblanc, who was every bit as complicit."

"Then why didn't you just destroy the damned thing?"

The old man's eyes graze over the journal now. How small it looks in the expanse of Vidocq's desk.

"I believe Dr. Carpentier wanted people to know what happened in that tower. When they were ready to hear it."

Vidocq turns completely away now. Fills the window frame with his bulk and takes the sunlight with him.

"And he never told anyone else? His wife? His son? Seems odd he should leave such a valuable addition to History in the safekeeping of . . ."

A doddering old man. My thought, not Vidocq's. But a note of apology does seep into his voice now, as if the same idea had crossed his mind.

"You must admit," he says, "it wasn't a very rational thing to do."

"They were hardly rational times, Monsieur."

"Strange days," I say, echoing Vidocq's own words back to him.

He cocks his chin at me. Cocks it back toward Father Time.

"I assume, Professor, that you're familiar with the journal's contents."

"Dear me, yes."

"Do you have anything to add to what's been writ down in this book?"

"I don't believe so." His hands come together at stiff angles like a Gothic saint. "Of course, it was so very long ago. But if anything pops to mind, I shall-I shall certainly come and tell you, Monsieur . . . oh, I'm sorry, I've quite lost the name."

"Never mind. If something occurs to you, just tell Hector, there's a good fellow. In the meantime, we do thank you for your assistance. Shall I have one of my men drive you home?"

"Oh, no, I'm quite capable of walking, thank you." A strain of milky hope shines from his eyes. "Unless you have someone exceptionally pretty on the premises? No? Well, I'll be off, then. I shall look

for you back at the family manse, Hector! "

Vidocq closes the door gently after him. Lets out a soft whistle. "Well, what do you know?" he says, dropping heavily into his seat.

"Your father's own words. Crawling out of the earth just when we need

them. Quite a coincidence."

"Not at all," I remind him. "I'd already-I'd raised the subject

with the old man, remember? Before we even went to Saint-Cloud. It

just took him time to-snap the pieces together."