“Well answered!” approved the other; he was coming gradually under the spell of Coquenil’s conviction.  “And when—­when do you think this crime may be committed?”

“Who can say?  There must be great urgency to account for their insisting that I sail to-morrow.  Ah, you didn’t know that?  Yes, even now, at this very moment, I am supposed to be on the steamer train, for the boat goes out early in the morning before the Paris papers can reach Cherbourg.”

M. Pougeot started up, his eyes widening.  “What!” he cried.  “You mean that—­that possibly—­to-night?”

As he spoke a sudden flash of light came in through the garden window, followed by a resounding peal of thunder.  The brilliant sunset had been followed by a violent storm.

Coquenil paid no heed to this, but answered quietly:  “I mean that a great fight is ahead, and I shall be in it.  Somebody is playing for enormous stakes, somebody who disposes of fortune and power and will stop at nothing, somebody who will certainly crush me unless I crush him.  It will be a great case, Lucien, my greatest case, perhaps my last case.”  He stopped and looked intently at his mother’s picture, while his lips moved inaudibly.

“Ugh!” exclaimed the commissary.  “You’ve cast a spell over me.  Come, come, Paul, it may be only a fancy!”

But Coquenil sat still, his eyes fixed on his mother’s face.  And then came one of the strange coincidences of this extraordinary case.  On the silence of this room, with its tension of overwrought emotion, broke the sharp summons of the telephone.

“My God!” shivered the commissary.  “What is that?” Both men sat motionless, their eyes fixed on the ominous instrument.

Again came the call, this time more strident and commanding.  M. Pougeot aroused himself with an effort.  “We’re acting like children,” he muttered.  “It’s nothing.  I told them at the office to ring me up about nine.”  And he put the receiver to his ear.  “Yes, this is M. Pougeot....  What?...  The Ansonia?...  You say he’s shot?...  In a private dining room?...  Dead?... Quel malheur!"...  Then he gave quick orders:  “Send Papa Tignol over with a doctor and three or four agents.  Close the restaurant.  Don’t let anyone go in or out.  Don’t let anyone leave the banquet room.  I’ll be there in twenty minutes.  Good-by.”

He put the receiver down, and turning, white-faced, said to his friend:  “It has happened.”

Coquenil glanced at his watch.  “A quarter past nine.  We must hurry.”  Then, flinging open a drawer in his desk:  “I want this and—­this.  Come, the automobile is waiting.”

CHAPTER III

PRIVATE ROOM NUMBER SIX

The night was black and rain was falling in torrents as Paul Coquenil and the commissary rolled away in response to this startling summons of crime.  Up the Rue Mozart they sped with sounding horn, feeling their way carefully on account of troublesome car tracks, then faster up the Avenue Victor Hugo, their advance being accompanied by vivid lightning flashes.