But when the porter’s wife came shrieking into the street early one summer’s morning, with wildest terror depicted in her face, and shaking like a jelly, the police felt bound to come to the front.

“Has madame seen a ghost?” asked a stern official in a cocked hat and sword, accosting her abruptly.

“No, no!  Fetch the commissary, quick!  A crime has been committed—­a terrible crime!” she gasped.

This was business, and the police-officer knew what he had to do.

“Run, Jules,” he said to a colleague.  “You know where M. Bontoux lives.  Tell him he is wanted at the Hotel Paradis.”  Then, turning to the woman, he said, “Now, madame, explain yourself.”

“It is a murder, I am afraid.  A gentleman has been stabbed.”

“What gentleman?  Where?”

“In the drawing-room, upstairs.  I don’t know his name, but he came here frequently.  My husband will perhaps be able to tell you; he is there.”

“Lead on,” said the police-officer; “take me to the place.  I will see to it myself.”

They passed into the hotel through the inner portal, and up the stairs to the first floor, where the principal rooms were situated—­three of them furnished and decorated magnificently, altogether out of keeping with the miserable exterior of the house, having enormous mirrors from ceiling to floor, gilt cornices, damask hangings, marble console tables, and chairs and sofas in marqueterie and buhl.  The first room evidently served for reception; there was a sideboard in one corner, on which were the remains of a succulent repast, and dozens of empty bottles.  The second and third rooms were more especially devoted to the business of the establishment.  Long tables, covered with green cloth, filled up the centre of each, and were strewed with cards, dice and their boxes, croupier’s rakes, and other implements of gaming.

The third room had been the scene of the crime.  There upon the floor lay the body of a man, a well-dressed man, wearing the white kerseymere trousers, the light waistcoat, and long-tailed green coat which were then in vogue.  His clothes were all spotted and bedrabbled with gore; his shirt was torn open, and plainly revealed the great gaping wound from which his life’s blood was quickly ebbing away.

The wounded man’s head rested on the knee of the night porter, a personage wearing a kind of livery, a strongly built, truculent-looking villain, whose duties, no doubt, comprised the putting of people out as well as the letting them into the house.

“Oh, Anatole! my cherished one!” began the porter’s wife.  “Here are the police.  Tell us then, how this occurred.”

“I will tell all I know,” replied her husband, looking at the police-officer.  “This morning, when the clients had nearly all gone, and I was sitting half asleep in the lodge, I heard—­”

“Stop,” said the police-officer, “not another word.  Keep all you have to say for the commissary.  He is already on the stairs.”