"That's the only way he could have come without my seeing him."
"And if he went out from Number Six afterwards, I mean if he left the hotel, he must have passed you in the corridor?"
"Exactly." Joseph's face was brightening.
"Now, did anyone pass you in the corridor, anyone except the lady?"
"Yes, sir," answered the waiter eagerly, "a young man passed me."
"Going out?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you know where he came from?"
"I supposed he came from the banquet room."
"Did this happen before the lady went out, or after?"
"Before."
"Can you describe this young man, Joseph?"
The waiter frowned and rubbed his red neck. "I think I should know him, he was slender and clean shaven—yes, I'm sure I should know him."
"Did anyone else pass you, either going out or coming in?"
"No, sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely sure."
"That will do."
Joseph heaved a sigh of relief and was just passing out when the commissary cried out with a startled expression: "A thousand thunders! Wait! That woman—what did she wear?"
The waiter turned eagerly. "Why, a beautiful evening gown, sir, cut low with a lot of lace and——"
"No, no. I mean, what did she wear outside? Her wraps? Weren't they in Number Six?"
"No, sir, they were downstairs in the cloakroom."
"In the cloakroom!" He bounded to his feet. "Bon sang de bon Dieu! Quick! Fool! Don't you understand?"
This outburst stirred Joseph to unexampled efforts; he fairly hurled his massive body down the stairs, and a few moments later returned, panting but happy, with news that the lady in Number Six had left a cloak and leather bag in the cloakroom. These articles were still there.
"Ah, that is something!" murmured the commissary, and he hurried down to see the things for himself.
The cloak was of yellow silk, embroidered in white, a costly garment from a fashionable maker; but there was nothing to indicate the wearer. The bag was a luxurious trifle in Brazilian lizard skin, with solid-gold mountings; but again there was no clew to the owner, no name, no cards, only some samples of dress goods, a little money, and an unmarked handkerchief.
"Don't move these things," directed M. Pougeot. "It's possible some one will call for them, and if anyone should call, why—that's Gibelin's affair. Now we'll see these Americans."
It was a quarter past ten, and the hilarity of proceedings at the Fourth-of-July banquet (no ladies present) had reached its height. A very French-looking student from Bridgeport, Connecticut, had just started an uproarious rendering of "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," with Latin-Quarter variations, when there came a sudden hush and a turning of heads toward the half-open door, through which a voice was heard in peremptory command. Something had happened, something serious, if one could judge by the face of François, the head waiter, who stood at the corridor entrance.
"Not so fast," he insisted, holding the young men back, and a moment later there entered a florid-faced man with authoritative mien, closely followed by two policemen.
"Horns of a purple cow!" muttered the Bridgeport art student, who loved eccentric oaths. "The house is pulled!"
"Gentlemen," began M. Pougeot, while the company listened in startled silence, "I am sorry to interrupt this pleasant gathering, especially as I understand that you are celebrating your national holiday; unfortunately, I have a duty to perform that admits of no delay. While you have been feasting and singing, as becomes your age and the occasion, an act of violence has taken place within the sound of your voices—I may say under cover of your voices."
He paused and swept his eyes in keen scrutiny over the faces before him, as if trying to read in one or the other of them the answer to some question not yet asked.
"My friends," he continued, and now his look became almost menacing, "I am here as an officer of the law because I have reason to believe that a guest at this banquet is connected with a crime committed in this restaurant within the last hour or two."
So extraordinary was this accusation and so utterly unexpected that for some moments no one spoke. Then, after the first dismay, came indignant protests; this man had a nerve to break in on a gathering of American citizens with a fairy tale like that!
"Silence!" rang out the commissary's voice sharply. "Who sat there?" He pointed to a vacant seat at the long central table.
All eyes turned to this empty chair, and heads came together in excited whispers.
"Bring me a plan of the tables," he continued, and when this was spread before him: "I will read off the names marked here, and each one of you will please answer."
In tense silence he called the names, and to each one came a quick "Here!" until he said "Kittredge!"
There was no answer.
"Lloyd Kittredge!" he repeated, and still no one spoke.
"Ah!" he muttered and went on calling names, but no one else was missing.
"All here but M. Kittredge. He was here, and—he went out. I must know why he went out, I must know when he went out—exactly when; I must know how he acted before he left, what he said—in short, I must know all you can tell me about him. Remember, the best service you can render your friend is to speak freely. If he is innocent, the truth will protect him"
Then began a wearisome questioning of witnesses, not very fruitful, either, for these Americans developed a surprising ignorance touching their fellow-countryman and all that concerned him. It must have been about nine o'clock when he went out, perhaps a few minutes earlier. No, there had been nothing peculiar in his actions or manner; in fact, most of the guests had not even noticed his absence.
As to Kittredge's life and personality the result was scarcely more satisfactory. He had appeared in Paris about a year before, just why was not known, and had passed as a good fellow, perhaps a little wild and hot-headed. Strangely enough, no one could say where Kittredge lived; he had left rather expensive rooms near the boulevards that he had occupied at first, and since then he had almost disappeared from his old haunts. Some said that his money had given out and he had gone to work, but this was only vague rumor.
These facts having been duly recorded, the banqueters were informed that they might depart, which they did in silence, the spirit of festivity having vanished.
Inquiries were now made in the hotel about Kittredge's movements, but nothing came to light except the statement of a big, liveried doorkeeper, who remembered distinctly the sudden appearance at about nine o'clock of a young man who was very anxious to get a cab. The storm was then at its height, and the doorkeeper had advised the young man to wait, feeling sure the tempest would cease as suddenly as it had begun; but the latter, apparently ill at ease, had insisted that he must go at once; he said he would find a cab himself, and turning up his collar so that his face was almost hidden, and drawing his thin overcoat tight about his evening dress, he had dashed into the black downpour, and a moment later the doorkeeper, surprised at this eccentric behavior, saw the young man hail a passing fiacre and drive away.
At this point in the investigation the unexpected happened. One of the policemen burst in to say that some one had called for the lady's cloak and bag. It was a young man with a check for the things; he was waiting for them now in the cloakroom and he seemed nervous.
"Well?" snapped the commissary.
"I was going to arrest him, sir," replied the other eagerly, "but——"
"Will you never learn