“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.