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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 Hôtel 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.
Then follow eleven messages from Reuter on M. Tisza's speech on the relations between Russia and Austria; on the Egyptian Financial control; the new Archbishop of Canterbury; the Lough Mask murders; the health of Mr. Fawcett and M. Gambetta; the trial of MM. Bontoux and Feder; the mails; monetary intelligence; commercial intelligence, and foreign shipping intelligence.
The next minute M. Bontoux entered, accompanied by his clerk and the official doctor of the quarter. "A crime," said the commissary, slowly, and with as much dignity as was possible in a middle-aged gentleman pulled from his bed at daybreak, and compelled to dress in a hurry. "A crime," he repeated. "Of that there can be no doubt. But let us establish the fact formally. Where are the witnesses?"
M. Bontoux looked round. "The name he mentioned I know," said the night-porter, quickly. "This M. Gascoigne came here frequently. He is an Englishman." "So I gathered from the dead man's words. Do you know his domicile in Paris?" "Rue St. Honoré, Hôtel Versailles and St. Cloud. I have seen him enter it more than once, with his wife. He has lived there some months."
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