I saw the picture of the
window with the balcony. Ivor was supposed--according to Girard, the
detective--to have tried in vain to escape by way of this high balcony,
on hearing sounds outside the door while busy in searching the dead
man's room. Girard said that he had seen him first, by the light of a
bull's-eye lantern, which he--Girard--carried, standing at bay in the
open window. There was a photograph of this window, taken from outside.
There was the balcony: and there was the balcony of another window with
another balcony just like it, on the adjoining house. I looked at the
picture, and judged that there would not be more than two feet of
distance between the railings of those two balconies.

"That would be my way to get there--if I can get there at all," I said
to myself. But there was hardly any "if" left in my mind now. I meant to
get there.

By this time it was after five o'clock. I left the Duval restaurant, and
again took a cab. The first thing I did was to send a _petit bleu_ to
Aunt Lilian, saying that she wasn't to worry about me. I'd been hipped
and nervous, and had gone out to see a friend who was--I'd just found
out--staying in Paris. Perhaps I should stop with the friend to dinner;
but at latest I should be back by nine or ten o'clock. That would save a
bother at the hotel (for Aunt Lilian knew I had heaps of American
friends who came every year to Paris), yet no one would know where to
search for me, even if they were inclined.

Next, I drove to a street near the Rue de la Fille Sauvage, and
dismissed my cab. I asked for no directions, but after one or two
mistakes, found the street I wanted. Instead of going to the house of
the murder, I passed on to the next house on the left--the house of the
balcony almost adjoining the dead man's.

I rang the bell for the concierge, and asked him if there were any rooms
to let in the house. I knew already that there were, for I could see the
advertisement of "_Chambres a louer_" staring me in the face: but I
spoke French as badly as I could, making three mistakes to every
sentence, and begged the man to talk slowly in answering me.

There were several rooms to be had, it appeared, but it would have been
too good to be true that the one I wanted should be empty. After we had
jabbered awhile, I made the concierge understand that I was a young
American journalist, employed by a New York paper. I wanted to "write
up" the murder of last night, according to my o