“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 Francois, 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!”