“There,” she replied, pointing, “it lies to the left of that heavy doorway on the courtyard stones.  I could see it from my balcony.”

[Illustration:  “‘There it lies to the left of that heavy doorway.’”]

“Wait!” and, speaking to Tignol in a low tone, M. Paul gave him quick instructions, whereupon the old man hurried across the street and pulled the bell at the doorway indicated.

“Is he going to see what it was?” asked the spinster eagerly.

“Yes, he is going to see what it was,” and at that moment the door swung open and Papa Tignol disappeared within.

“Did you happen to see the person who threw this thing?” continued M. Paul gently.

“No, but I saw his arm.”

Coquenil gave a start of satisfaction.  “His arm?  Then a man threw it?”

“Oh, yes, I saw his black coat sleeve and his white cuff quite plainly.”

“But not his face?”

“No, only the arm.”

“Do you remember the window from which he threw this object?” The detective looked at her anxiously.

“Yes, indeed, it is easy to remember; it’s the end window, on the first floor of the hotel.  There!”

Coquenil felt a thrill of excitement, for, unless he had misunderstood the commissary’s diagram, the seamstress was pointing not to private room Number Six, but to private room Number Seven!

“Lucien!” he called, and, taking his friend aside, he asked:  “Does that end window on the first floor belong to Number Six or Number Seven?”

“Number Seven.”

“And the window next to it?”

“Number Six.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“Thanks.  Just a moment,” and he rejoined the seamstress.

“You are giving us great assistance,” he said to her politely.  “I shall speak of you to the chief.”

“Oh, sir,” she murmured in confusion.

“But one point is not quite clear.  Just look across again.  You see two open windows, the end window and the one next to it.  Isn’t it possible that this bright thing was thrown from the window next to the end one?”

“No, no.”

“They are both alike and, both being open, one might easily make a mistake.”

She shook her head positively.  “I have made no mistake, it was the end window.”

Just then Coquenil heard the click of the door opposite and, looking over, he saw Papa Tignol beckoning to him.

“Excuse me,” he said and hurried across the street.

“It’s there,” whispered Tignol.

“The pistol?”

“Yes.”

“You remembered what I told you?”

The old man looked hurt.  “Of course I did.  I haven’t touched it.  Nothing could make me touch it.”

“Good!  Papa Tignol, I want you to stay here until I come back.  Things are marching along.”

Again he rejoined the seamstress and, with his serious, friendly air, he began:  “And you still think that shining object was thrown from the second window?”