Such was Judge Hauteville, cold, patient, inexorable in the pursuit of truth.  And presently he arrived.

“You look serious this morning,” he said, remarking Coquenil’s pale face.

“Yes,” nodded M. Paul, “that’s how I feel,” and settling himself in a chair he proceeded to relate the events of the night, ending with a frank account of his misadventure on the Champs Elysees.

The judge listened with grave attention.  This was a more serious affair than he had imagined.  Not only was there no longer any question of suicide, but it was obvious that they were dealing with a criminal of the most dangerous type and one possessed of extraordinary resources.

“You believe it was the assassin himself who met you?” questioned Hauteville.

“Don’t you?”

“I’m not sure.  You think his motive was to get the woman’s address?”

“Isn’t that reasonable?”

Hauteville shook his head.  “He wouldn’t have risked so much for that.  How did he know that you hadn’t copied the name and given it to one of us—­say to me?”

“Ah, if I only had,” sighed the detective.

“How did he know that you wouldn’t remember the name?  Can’t you remember it—­at all?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do,” replied the other gloomily, “I’ve tried and tried, but the name won’t come back.  I put those pieces together and read the words distinctly, the name and the address.  It was a foreign name, English I should say, and the street was an avenue near the Champs Elysees, the Avenue d’Eylau, or the Avenue d’Iena, I cannot be sure.  I didn’t fix the thing in my mind because I had it in my pocket, and in the work of the night it faded away.”

“A great pity!  Still, this man could neither have known that nor guessed it.  He took the address from you on a chance, but his chief purpose must have been to impress you with his knowledge and his power.”

Coquenil stared at his brown seal ring and then muttered savagely:  “How did he know the name of that infernal canary bird?”

The judge smiled.  “He has established some very complete system of surveillance that we must try to circumvent.  For the moment we had better decide upon immediate steps.”

With this they turned to a fresh consideration of the case.  Already the machinery of justice had begun to move.  Martinez’s body and the weapon had been taken to the morgue for an autopsy, the man’s jewelry and money were in the hands of the judge, and photographs of the scene of the tragedy would be ready shortly as well as plaster impressions of the alleyway footprints.  An hour before, as arranged the previous night, Papa Tignol had started out to search for Kittredge’s lodgings, since the American, when questioned by Gibelin at the prison, had obstinately refused to tell where he lived and an examination of his quarters was a matter of immediate importance.

It was not Papa Tignol, however, who was to furnish this information, but the discomfited Gibelin whose presence in the outer office was at this moment announced by the judge’s clerk.