“Call the next witness,” directed the judge, and the clerk of the court sang out: 

“Paul Coquenil!”

A murmur of sympathy and surprise ran through the room as the small door opened, just under the painting of justice, and a gaunt, pallid figure appeared, a tall man, wasted and weakened.  He came forward leaning on a cane and his right hand was bandaged.

“I would like to add, your Honor,” said Dr. Duprat, “that M. Coquenil has risen from a sick bed to come here; in fact, he has come against medical advice to testify in favor of this young prisoner.”

The audience was like a powder mine waiting for a spark.  Only a word was needed to set off their quivering, pent-up enthusiasm.

“What is your name?” asked the judge as the witness took the stand.

“Paul Coquenil,” was the quiet answer.

It was the needed word, the spark to fire the train.  Paul Coquenil!  Never in modern times had a Paris courtroom witnessed a scene like that which followed.  Pussy Wilmott, who spent her life looking for new sensations, had one now.  And Kittredge manacled in the dock, yet wildly happy!  And Alice outside, almost fainting between hope and fear!  And De Heidelmann-Bruck with his brave eyeglass and groveling soul!  They all had new sensations!

As Coquenil spoke, there went up a great cry from the audience, an irresistible tribute to his splendid bravery.  It was spontaneous, it was hysterical, it was tremendous.  Men and women sprang to their feet, shouting and waving and weeping.  The crowd, crushed in the corridor, caught the cry and passed it along.

“Coquenil!  Coquenil!”

The down in the courtyard it sounded, and out into the street, where a group of students started the old snappy refrain: 

    “Oh, oh!  Il nous faut-o! 
    Beau, beau!  Beau Cocono-o!”

In vain the judge thundered admonitions and the clerk shouted for order.  That white-faced, silent witness leaning on his cane, stood for the moment to these frantic people as the symbol of what they most admired in a man—­resourcefulness before danger and physical courage and the readiness to die for a friend.  For these three they seldom had a chance to shout and weep, so they wept and shouted now!

“Coquenil!  Coquenil!”

There had been bitter moments in the great detective’s life, but this made up for them; there had been proud, intoxicating moments, but this surpassed them.  Coquenil, too, had a new sensation!

When at length the tumult was stilled and the panting, sobbing audience had settled back in their seats, the presiding judge, lenient at heart to the disorder, proceeded gravely with his examination.

“Please state what you know about this case,” he said, and again the audience waited in deathlike stillness.

“There is no need of many words,” answered M. Paul; then pointing an accusing arm at De Heidelmann-Bruck, “I know that this man shot Enrico Martinez on the night of July 4th, at the Ansonia Hotel.”