“She says the lady was young and good-looking—­that’s about all she remembers.”

“Hm!  Have you anything else to report?”

Gibelin chuckled harshly.  “I have kept the most important thing for the last.  I’m afraid it will annoy my distinguished colleague even more than the loss of the leather fragments.”

“Don’t waste your sympathy,” retorted Coquenil.

Gibelin gave a little snort of defiance.  “I certainly won’t.  I only mean that your debut in this case hasn’t been exactly—­ha, ha!—­well, not exactly brilliant.”

“Here, here!” reproved the judge.  “Let us have the facts.”

“Well,” continued the red-haired man, “I have found the owner of the pistol that killed Martinez.”

Coquenil started.  “The owner of the pistol we found in the courtyard?”

“Precisely.  I should tell you, also, that the balls from that pistol are identical with the ball extracted from the body.  The autopsy proves it, so Dr. Joubert says.  And this pistol belongs in a leather holster that I found in Mr. Kittredge’s room.  Dr. Joubert let me take the pistol for verification and—­there, you can see for yourselves.”

With this he produced the holster and the pistol and laid them before the judge.  There was no doubt about it, the two objects belonged together.  Various worn places corresponded and the weapon fitted in its case.  “Besides,” continued Gibelin, “the chambermaid identifies this pistol as the property of the American.  He always kept it in a certain drawer, she noticed it there a few days ago, but yesterday it was gone and the holster was empty.”

“It looks bad,” muttered the judge.

“It looks bad, but it’s too easy, it’s too simple,” answered M. Paul.

“In the old school,” sneered Gibelin, “we are not always trying to solve problems in difficult ways.  We don’t reject a solution merely because it’s easy—­if the truth lies straight before our nose, why, we see it.”

“My dear sir,” retorted Coquenil angrily, “if what you think the truth turns out to be the truth, then you ought to be in charge of this case and I’m a fool.”

“Granted,” smiled the other.

“Come, come, gentlemen,” interrupted the judge.  Then abruptly to Gibelin:  “Did you see about his boots?”

“No, I thought you would send to the prison and get the pair he wore last night.”

“How do you know he didn’t change his boots when he burned the letters?  Go back to his hotel and see if they noticed a muddy pair in his room this morning.  Bring me whatever boots of his you find.  Also stop at the depot and get the pair he had on when arrested.  Be quick!”

“I will,” answered Gibelin, and he went out, pausing at the door to salute M. Paul mockingly.

“Ill-tempered brute!” said Hauteville.  “I will see that he has nothing more to do with this case.”  Then he touched an electric bell.