“Has anything been disturbed here?  Has anyone touched this body?” demanded Pougeot sharply.

“No,” said the doctor; “Gibelin came in with me, but neither of us touched anything.  We waited for you.”

“I see.  Ready, Leroy,” and he proceeded to dictate what there was to say, dwelling on two facts:  that there was no sign of a weapon in the room and that the long double window opening on the Rue Marboeuf was standing open.

“Now, doctor,” he concluded, “we will look at the body.”

Dr. Joubert’s examination established at once the direct cause of death.  The man, a well-built young fellow of perhaps twenty-eight, had been shot in the right eye, a ball having penetrated the brain, killing him instantly.  The face showed marks of flame and powder, proving that the weapon—­undoubtedly a pistol—­had been discharged from a very short distance.

This certainly looked like suicide, although the absence of the pistol pointed to murder.  The man’s face was perfectly calm, with no suggestion of fright or anger; his hands and body lay in a natural position and his clothes were in no way disordered.  Either he had met death willingly, or it had come to him without warning, like a lightning stroke.

“Doctor,” asked the commissary, glancing at the open window, “if this man shot himself, could he, in your opinion, with his last strength have thrown the pistol out there?”

“Certainly not,” answered Joubert.  “A man who received a wound like this would be dead before he could lift a hand, before he could wink.”

“Ah!”

“Besides, a search has been made underneath that window and no pistol has been found.”

“It must be murder,” muttered Pougeot.  “Was there any quarreling with the woman?”

“Joseph says not.  On the contrary, they seemed on the friendliest terms.”

“Hah!  See what he has on his person.  Note everything down.  We must find out who this poor fellow was.”

[Illustration:  “On the floor lay a man.”]

These instructions were carefully carried out, and it straightway became clear that robbery, at any rate, had no part in the crime.  In the dead man’s pockets was found a considerable sum of money, a bundle of five-pound notes of the Bank of England, besides a handful of French gold.  On his fingers were several valuable rings, in his scarf was a large ruby set with diamonds, and attached to his waistcoat was a massive gold medal that at once established his identity.  He was Enrico Martinez, a Spaniard widely known as a professional billiard player, and also the hero of the terrible Charity Bazaar fire, where, at the risk of his life, he had saved several women from the flames.  For this bravery the city of Paris had awarded him a gold medal and people had praised him until his head was half turned.