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left, the room occupied by the secretary, communicated with another apartment.
    “Let us inspect it,” said M. Lenormand.
    M. Formerie could not help shrugging his shoulders and growling:
    “But the communicating door is bolted and the window locked.”
    “Let us inspect it,” repeated M. Lenormand.
    He was taken into the apartment, which was the first of the five rooms reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach. Then, at his request, he was taken to the rooms leading out of it. All the communicating doors were bolted on both sides.
    “Are not any of these rooms occupied?” he asked.
    “No.”
    “Where are the keys?”
    “The keys are always kept in the office.”
    “Then no one can have got in? …”
    “No one, except the floor-waiter who airs and dusts the rooms.”
    “Send for him, please.”
    The man, whose name was Gustave Beudot, replied that he had closed the windows of five rooms on the previous day in accordance with his general instructions.
    “At what time?”
    “At six o’clock in the evening.”
    “And you noticed nothing?”
    “No, sir.”
    “And, this morning …?”
    “This morning, I opened the windows at eight o’clock exactly.”
    “And you found nothing?”
    He hesitated. He was pressed with questions and ended by admitting:
    “Well, I picked up a cigarette-case near the fireplace in 420 … I intended to take it to the office this evening.”
    “Have you it on you?”
    “No, it is in my room. It is a gun-metal case. It has a space for tobacco and cigarette-papers on one side and for matches on the other. There are two initials in gold: an L and an M …”
    “What’s that?”
    Chapman had stepped forward. He seemed greatly surprised and, questioning the servant:
    “A gun-metal cigarette-case, you say?”
    “Yes.”
    “With three compartments—for tobacco, cigarette-papers, and matches … Russian tobacco, wasn’t it, very fine and light?”
    “Yes.”
    “Go and fetch it … I should like to see it for myself … to make sure …”
    At a sign from the chief detective, Gustave Beudot left the room.
    M. Lenormand sat down and his keen eyes examined the carpet, the furniture and the curtains. He asked:
    “This is room 420, is it not?”
    “Yes.”
    The magistrate grinned:
    “I should very much like to know what connection you establish between this incident and the tragedy. Five locked doors separate us from the room in which Mr. Kesselbach was murdered.”
    M. Lenormand did not condescend to reply.
    Time passed. Gustave did not return.
    “Where does he sleep?” asked the chief detective.
    “On the sixth floor,” answered the manager. “The room is on the Rue de Judée side: above this, therefore. It’s curious that he’s not back yet.”
    “Would you have the kindness to send some one to see?”
    The manager went himself, accompanied by Chapman. A few minutes after, he returned alone, running, with every mark of consternation on his face.
    “Well?”
    “Dead!”
    “Murdered?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, by thunder, how clever these scoundrels are!” roared M. Lenormand, “Off with you, Gourel, and have the doors of the hotel locked … Watch every outlet … And you, Mr. Manager, please take us to Gustave Beudot’s room.”
    The manager led the way. But as they left the room, M. Lenormand stooped and picked up a tiny little round piece of paper, on which his eyes had already fixed themselves.
    It was a label surrounded with a blue border and marked with the number 813. He put it in his pocket, on chance, and joined the others …
    A small wound in the back, between the shoulder-blades …
    “Exactly the same wound as Mr. Kesselbach’s,” declared the doctor.
    “Yes,” said M. Lenormand, “it was the same hand that struck the blow and the same weapon was used.”
    Judging by the position of the body, the man had been surprised when on his knees before the bed, feeling under the mattress for the cigarette-case which he had hidden there. His arm was still caught between the