It was a long night at the Ansonia and a hard night for M. Gritz. France is a land of infinite red tape where even such simple things as getting born or getting married lead to endless formalities. Judge, then, of the complicated procedure involved in so serious a matter as getting murdered—especially in a fashionable restaurant! Long before the commissary had finished his report there arrived no less a person than M. Simon, the chief of police, round-faced and affable, a brisk, dapper man whose ready smile had led more than one trusting criminal into regretted confidences.

And a little later came M. Hauteville, the judge in charge of the case, a cold, severe figure, handsome in his younger days, but soured, it was said, by social disappointments and ill health. He was in evening dress, having been summoned posthaste from the theater. Both of these officials went over the case with the commissary and the doctor, both viewed the body and studied its surroundings and, having formed a theory of the crime, both proceeded to draw up a report. And the doctor drew up his report. And already Gibelin (now at the prison with Kittredge) had made elaborate notes for his report. And outside the hotel, with eager notebooks, were a score of reporters all busy with their reports. No doubt that, in the matter of paper and ink, full justice would be done to the sudden taking off of this gallant billiard player!

Meantime the official police photographer and his assistants had arrived (this was long after midnight) with special apparatus for photographing the victim and the scene of the crime. And their work occupied two full hours owing largely to the difficult manipulation of a queer, clumsy camera that photographed the body from above as it lay on the floor.

In the intervals of these formalities the officials discussed the case with a wide variance in opinions and conclusions. The chief of police and M. Pougeot were strong for the theory of murder, while M. Hauteville leaned toward suicide. The doctor was undecided.

"But the shot was fired at the closest possible range," insisted the judge; "the pistol was not a foot from the man's head. Isn't that true, doctor?"

"Yes," replied Joubert, "the eyebrows are badly singed, the skin is burned, and the face shows unmistakable powder marks. I should say the pistol was fired not six inches from the victim."

"Then it's suicide," declared the judge. "How else account for the facts? Martinez was a strong, active man. He would never have allowed a murderer to get so close to him without a struggle. But there is not the slightest sign of a struggle, no disorder in the room, no disarrangement of the man's clothing. It's evidently suicide."

"If it's suicide," objected Pougeot, "where is the weapon? The man died instantly, didn't he, doctor?"

"Undoubtedly," agreed the doctor.

"Then the pistol must have fallen beside him or remained in his hand. Well, where is it?"

"Ask the woman who was here. How do you know she didn't take it?"

"Nonsense!" put in the chief. "Why should she take it? To throw suspicion on herself? Besides, I'll show you another reason why it's not suicide. The man was shot through the right eye, the ball went in straight and clean, tearing its way to the brain. Well, in the whole history of suicides, there is not one case where a man has shot himself in the eye. Did you ever hear of such a case, doctor?"

"Never," answered Joubert.

"A man will shoot himself in the mouth, in the temple, in the heart, anywhere, but not in the eye. There would be an unconquerable shrinking from that. So I say it's murder."

The judge shook his head. "And the murderer?"

"Ah, that's another question. We must find the woman. And we must understand the rÔle of this American."

"No woman ever fired that shot or planned this crime," declared the commissary, unconsciously echoing Coquenil's opinion.

"There's better reason to argue that the American never did it," retorted the judge.

"What reason?"

"The woman ran away, didn't she? And the American didn't. If he had killed this man, do you think anything would have brought him back here for that cloak and bag?"

"A good point," nodded the chief. "We can't be sure of the murderer—yet, but we can be reasonably sure it's murder."

Still the judge was unconvinced. "If it's murder, how do you account for the singed eyebrows? How did the murderer get so near?"

"I answer as you did: 'Ask the woman.' She knows."

"Ah, yes, she knows," reflected the commissary. "And, gentlemen, all our talk brings us back to this, we must find that woman."

At half past one Gibelin appeared to announce the arrest of Kittredge. He had tried vainly to get from the American some clew to the owner of cloak and bag, but the young man had refused to speak and, with sullen indifference, had allowed himself to be locked up in the big room at the depot.

"I'll see what I can squeeze out of him in the morning," said Hauteville grimly. There was no judge in the parquet who had his reputation for breaking down the resistance of obstinate prisoners.

"You've got your work cut out," snapped the detective. "He's a stubborn devil."

In the midst of these perplexities and technicalities a note was brought in for M. Pougeot. The commissary glanced at it quickly and then, with a word of excuse, left the room, returning a few minutes later and whispering earnestly to M. Simon.

"You say he is here?" exclaimed the latter. "I thought he was sailing for——"

M. Pougeot bent closer and whispered again.

"Paul Coquenil!" exclaimed the chief. "Why, certainly, ask him to come in."

A moment later Coquenil entered and all rose with cordial greetings, that is, all except Gibelin, whose curt nod and suspicious glances showed that he found anything but satisfaction in the presence of this formidable rival.

"My dear Coquenil!" said Simon warmly. "This is like the old days! If you were only with us now what a nut there would be for you to crack!"

"So I hear," smiled M. Paul, "and—er—the fact is, I have come to help you crack it." He spoke with that quiet but confident seriousness which always carried conviction, and M. Simon and the judge, feeling the man's power, waited his further words with growing interest; but Gibelin blinked his small eyes and muttered under his breath: "The cheek of the fellow!"

"As you know," explained Coquenil briefly, "I resigned from the force two years ago. I need not go into details; the point is, I now ask to be taken back. That is why I am here."

"But, my dear fellow," replied the chief in frank astonishment, "I understood that you had received a magnificent offer with——"

"Yes, yes, I have."

"With a salary of a hundred thousand francs?"

"It's true, but—I have refused it."

Simon and Hauteville looked at Coquenil incredulously. How could a man refuse a salary of a hundred thousand francs? The commissary watched his friend with admiration, Gibelin with envious hostility.

"May I ask why you have refused it?" asked the chief.

"Partly for personal reasons, largely because I want to have a hand in this case."

Gibelin moved uneasily.

"You think this case so interesting?" put in the judge.

"The most interesting I have ever known," answered the other, and then he added with all the authority of his fine, grave face: "It's more than interesting, it's the most important criminal case Paris has known for three generations."

Again they stared at him.

"My dear Coquenil, you exaggerate," objected M. Simon. "After all, we have only the shooting of a billiard player."

M. Paul shook his head and replied impressively: "The billiard player was a pawn in the game. He became troublesome and was sacrificed. He is of no importance, but there's a greater game than billiards here with a master player and—I'm going to be in it."

"Why do you think it's a great game?" questioned the judge.

"Why do I think anything? Why did I think a commonplace pickpocket at the Bon MarchÉ was a notorious criminal, wanted by two countries? Why did I think we should find the real clew to that Bordeaux counterfeiting gang in a Passy wine shop? Why did I think it necessary to-night to be on the cab this young American took and not behind it in another cab?" He shot a quick glance at Gibelin. "Because a good detective knows certain things before he can prove them and acts on his knowledge. That is what distinguishes him from an ordinary detective."

"Meaning me?" challenged Gibelin.

"Not at all," replied M. Paul smoothly. "I only say that——"

"One moment," interrupted M. Simon. "Do I understand that you were with the driver who took this American away from here to-night?"

Coquenil smiled. "I was not with the driver, I was the driver and I had the honor of receiving five francs from my distinguished associate." He bowed mockingly to Gibelin and held up a silver piece. "I shall keep this among my curiosities."

"It was a foolish trick, a perfectly useless trick," declared Gibelin, furious.

"Perhaps not," answered the other with aggravating politeness; "perhaps it was a rather nice coup leading to very important results."

"Huh! What results?"

"Yes. What results?" echoed the judge.

"Let me ask first," replied Coquenil deliberately, "what you regard as the most important thing to be known in this case just now?"

"The name of the woman," answered Hauteville promptly.

"Parbleu!" agreed the commissary.

"Then the man who gives you this woman's name and address will render a real service?"

"A service?" exclaimed Hauteville. "The whole case rests on this woman. Without her, nothing can be understood."

"So it would be a good piece of work," continued Coquenil, "if a man had discovered this name and address in the last few hours with nothing but his wits to help him; in fact, with everything done to hinder him." He looked meaningly at Gibelin.

"Come, come," interrupted the chief, "what are you driving at?"

"At this, I have the woman's name and address."

"Impossible!" they cried.

"I got them by my own efforts and I will give them up on my own terms." He spoke with a look of fearless purpose that M. Simon well remembered from the old days.

"A thousand devils! How did you do it?" cried Simon.

"I watched the American in the cab as he leaned forward toward the lantern light and I saw exactly what he was doing. He opened the lady's bag and cut out a leather flap that had her name and address stamped on it."

"No," contradicted Gibelin, "there was no name in the bag. I examined it myself."

"The name was on the under side of the flap," laughed the other, "in gilt letters."

Gibelin's heart sank.

"And you took this flap from the American?" asked M. Simon.

"No, no! Any violence would have brought my colleague into the thing, for he was close behind, and I wanted this knowledge for myself."

"What did you do?" pursued the chief.

"I let the young man cut the flap into small pieces and drop them one by one as we drove through dark little streets. And I noted where he dropped the pieces. Then I drove back and picked them up, that is, all but two."

"Marvelous!" muttered Hauteville.

"I had a small searchlight lantern to help me. That was one of the things I took from my desk," he added to Pougeot.

"And these pieces of leather with the name and address, you have them?" continued the chief.

"I have them."

"With you?"

"Yes."

"May I see them?"

"Certainly. If you will promise to respect them as my personal property?"

Simon hesitated. "You mean—" he frowned, and then impatiently: "Oh, yes, I promise that."

Coquenil drew an envelope from his breast pocket and from it he took a number of white-leather fragments. And he showed the chief that most of these fragments were stamped in gold letters or parts of letters.

"I'm satisfied," declared Simon after examining several of the fragments and returning them. "Bon Dieu!" he stormed at Gibelin. "And you had that bag in your hands!"

Gibelin sat silent. This was the wretchedest moment in his career.

"Well," continued the chief, "we must have these pieces of leather. What are your terms?"

"I told you," said Coquenil, "I want to be put back on the force. I want to handle this case."

M. Simon thought a moment. "That ought to be easily arranged. I will see the prÉfet de police about it in the morning."

But the other demurred. "I ask you to see him to-night. It's ten minutes to his house in an automobile. I'll wait here."

The chief smiled. "You're in a hurry, aren't you? Well, so are we. Will you come with me, Hauteville?"

"If you like."

"And I'll go, if you don't mind," put in the commissary. "I may have some influence with the prÉfet."

"He won't refuse me," declared Simon. "After all, I am responsible for the pursuit of criminals in this city, and if I tell him that I absolutely need Paul Coquenil back on the force, as I do, he will sign the commission at once. Come, gentlemen."

A moment later the three had hurried off, leaving Coquenil and Gibelin together.

"Have one?" said M. Paul, offering his cigarette case.

"Thanks," snapped Gibelin with deliberate insolence, "I prefer my own."

"There's no use being ugly about it," replied the other good-naturedly, as he lighted a cigarette. His companion did the same and the two smoked in silence, Gibelin gnawing savagely at his little red mustache.

"See here," broke in the latter, "wouldn't you be ugly if somebody butted into a case that had been given to you?"

"Why," smiled Coquenil, "if he thought he could handle it better than I could, I—I think I'd let him try."

"'Have one?' said M. Paul, offering his cigarette case."

Then there was another silence, broken presently by Gibelin.

"Do you imagine the prÉfet de police is going to stand being pulled out of bed at three in the morning just because Paul Coquenil wants something? Well, I guess not."

"No? What do you think he'll do?" asked Coquenil.

"Do? He'll tell those men they are three idiots, that's what he'll do. And you'll never get your appointment. Bet you five louis you don't."

M. Paul shook his head. "I don't want your money."

"Bon sang! You think the whole police department must bow down to you."

"It's not a case of bowing down to me, it's a case of needing me."

"Huh!" snorted the other. "I'm going to walk around." He rose and moved toward the door. Then he turned sharply: "Say, how much did you pay that driver?"

"Ten louis. It was cheap enough. He might have lost his place."

"You think it's a great joke on me because I paid you five francs? Don't forget that it was raining and dark and you had that rubber cape pulled up over half your face, so it wasn't such a wonderful disguise."

"I didn't say it was."

"Anyhow, I'll get square with you," retorted the other, exasperated by M. Paul's good nature. "The best men make mistakes and look out that you don't make one."

"If I do, I'll call on you for help."

"And if you do, I'll take jolly good care that you don't get it," snarled the other.

"Nonsense!" laughed Coquenil. "You're a good soldier, Gibelin; you like to kick and growl, but you do your work. Tell you what I'll do as soon as I'm put in charge of this case. Want to know what I'll do?"

"Well?"

"I'll have to set you to work on it. Ha, ha! Upon my soul, I will."

"You'd better look out," menaced the red-haired man with an ugly look, "or I'll do some work on this case you'll wish I hadn't done." With this he flung himself out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

"What did he mean by that?" muttered M. Paul, and he sat silent, lost in thought, until the others returned. In a glance, he read the answer in their faces.

"It's all right," said the chief.

"Congratulations, old friend," beamed Pougeot, squeezing Coquenil's hand.

"The prÉfet was extremely nice," added M. Hauteville; "he took our view at once."

"Then my commission is signed?"

"Precisely," answered the chief; "you are one of us again, and—I'm glad."

"Thank you, both of you," said M. Paul with a quiver of emotion.

"I give you full charge of this case," went on M. Simon, "and I will see that you have every possible assistance. I expect you to be on deck to-morrow morning."

Coquenil hesitated a moment and then, with a flash of his tireless energy, he said: "If it's all the same to you, chief, I'll go on deck to-night—now."