But Coquenil sat still, his eyes fixed on his mother's face. And then came
one of the strange coincidences of this extraordinary case. On the silence
of this room, with its tension of overwrought emotion, broke the sharp
summons of the telephone.

"My God!" shivered the commissary. "What is that?" Both men sat
motionless, their eyes fixed on the ominous instrument.

Again came the call, this time more strident and commanding. M. Pougeot
aroused himself with an effort. "We're acting like children," he muttered.
"It's nothing. I told them at the office to ring me up about nine." And he
put the receiver to his ear. "Yes, this is M. Pougeot.... What?... The
Ansonia?... You say he's shot?... In a private dining room?... Dead?...
_Quel malheur!_"... Then he gave quick orders: "Send Papa Tignol over with
a doctor and three or four _agents_. Close the restaurant. Don't let anyone
go in or out. Don't let anyone leave the banquet room. I'll be there in
twenty minutes. Good-by."

He put the receiver down, and turning, white-faced, said to his friend:
"_It has happened_."

Coquenil glanced at his watch. "A quarter past nine. We must hurry." Then,
flinging open a drawer in his desk: "I want this and--_this_. Come, the
automobile is waiting."




CHAPTER III