“Ah, you know about that?”

“Yes, and about the Rio Janeiro offer.  We want you to reconsider your decision.”  His voice was harsh and he spoke in a quick, brusque way, as one accustomed to the exercise of large authority.

“Who, pray, are ’we’?” asked the detective.

“Certain persons interested in this Ansonia affair.”

“Persons whom you represent?”

“In a way.”

“Persons who know about the crime—­I mean, who know the truth about it?”

“Possibly.”

“Hm!  Do these persons know what covered the holes in Number Seven?”

“A Japanese print.”

“And in Number Six?”

“Some yellow hangings.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Coquenil in surprise.  “Do they know why Martinez bored these holes?”

“To please the woman,” was the prompt reply.

“Did she want Martinez killed?”

“No.”

“Then why did she want the holes bored?”

“She wanted to see into Number Seven.”

It was extraordinary, not only the man’s knowledge but his unaccountable frankness.  And more than ever the detective was on his guard.

“I see you know something about the affair,” he said dryly.  “What do you want with me?”

“The persons I represent——­”

“Say the person you represent,” interrupted Coquenil.  “A criminal of this type acts alone.”

“As you like,” answered the other carelessly.  “Then the person I represent wishes you to withdraw from this case.”

The message was preposterous, the manner of its delivery fantastic, yet there was something vaguely formidable in the stranger’s tone, as if a great person had spoken, one absolutely sure of himself and of his power to command.

“Naturally,” retorted Coquenil.

“Why do you say naturally?”

“It’s natural for a criminal to wish that an effort against him should cease.  Tell your friend or employer that I am only mildly interested in his wishes.”

He spoke with deliberate hostility, but the dark-bearded man answered, quite unruffled:  “Ah, I may be able to heighten your interest.”

“Come, come, sir, my time is valuable.”

The stranger drew from his coat pocket a large thick envelope fastened with an elastic band and handed it to the detective.  “Whatever your time is worth,” he said in a rasping voice, “I will pay for it.  Please look at this.”

Coquenil’s curiosity was stirred.  Here was no commonplace encounter, at least it was a departure from ordinary criminal methods.  Who was this supercilious man?  How dared he come on such an errand to him, Paul Coquenil?  What desperate purpose lurked behind his self-confident mask?  Could it be that he knew the assassin or—­or was he the assassin?

Wondering thus, M. Paul opened the tendered envelope and saw that it contained a bundle of thousand-franc notes.