"They didn't say so."

Coquenil smiled. "That's how I know he escaped. If they had caught him
they would have told you, wouldn't they?"

"Why--er----"

"Of course they would. Well, think what it means to commit murder in a
crowded restaurant and get away. It means _brains_, Lucien. Ah, we're
nearly there!"

They had reached Napoleon's arch, and the automobile, swinging sharply to
the right, started at full speed down the Champs Elysées.

"It's bad for Gritz," reflected the commissary; then both men fell silent
in the thought of the emergency before them.

M. Gritz, it may be said, was the enterprising proprietor of the Ansonia,
this being the last and most brilliant of his creations for cheering the
rich and hungry wayfarer. He owned the famous Palace restaurant at Monte
Carlo, the Queen's in Piccadilly, London, and the Café Royal in Brussels.
Of all his ventures, however, this recently opened Ansonia (hotel and
restaurant) was by far the most ambitious. The building occupied a full
block on the Champs Elysées, just above the Rond Point, so that it was in
the center of fashionable Paris. It was the exact copy of a well-known
Venetian palace, and its exquisite white marble colonnade made it a real
adornment to the gay capital. Furthermore, M. Gritz had spent a fortune on
furnishings and decorations, the carvings, the mural paintings, the rugs,
the chairs, everything, in short, being up to the best millionaire
standard. He had the most high-priced chef in the world, with six chefs