r report. Never mind me."

"But I want you on the case," insisted the commissary.

"I'll be on the case, all right."

"I'll telephone headquarters at once about this," insisted Pougeot. "When
shall I see you again?"

Coquenil eyed his friend mysteriously. "I _think_ you'll see me before the
night is over. Now get to work, and," he smiled mockingly, "give M. Gibelin
the assurance of my distinguished consideration."

Pougeot nodded crustily and went back into the restaurant, while Coquenil,
with perfect equanimity, paid the automobile man and dismissed him.

Meantime in the large dining rooms on the street floor everything was going
on as usual, the orchestra was playing in its best manner and few of the
brilliant company suspected that anything was wrong. Those who started to
go out were met by M. Gritz himself, and, with a brief hint of trouble
upstairs, were assured that they would be allowed to leave shortly after
some necessary formalities. This delay most of them took good-naturedly and
went back to their tables.

As M. Pougeot mounted to the first floor he was met at the head of the
stairs by a little yellow-bearded man, with luminous dark eyes, who came
toward him, hand extended.

"Ah, Dr. Joubert!" said the commissary.

The doctor nodded nervously. "It's a singular case," he whispered, "a very
singular case."

At the same moment a door opened and Gibelin appeared. He was rather fat,
with small, piercing eyes and a reddish mustache. His voice was harsh, his
manners brusque, but there was no denying his intelligence. In a spirit of
conciliation he began to give M. Pougeot some details of the case,
whereupon the latter said stiffly: "Excuse me, sir, I need no assistance
from you in making this investigation. Come, doctor! In the field of his
jurisdiction a commissary of police is supreme, taking precedence even over
headquarters men." So Gibelin could only withdraw, muttering his
resentment, while Pougeot proceeded with his duties.

In general plan the Ansonia was in the form of a large E, the main part of
the second floor, where the tragedy took place, being occupied by public
dining rooms, but the two wings, in accordance with Parisian custom,
containing a number of private rooms where delicious meals might be had
with discreet attendance by those who wished to dine alone. In each of the
wings were seven of these private rooms, all opening on a dark-red
passageway lighted by soft electric lamps. It was