under him, two of whom made a specialty of American dishes. He had his own
farm for vegetables and butter, his own vineyards, his own permanent
orchestra, and his own brand of Turkish coffee made before your eyes by a
salaaming Armenian in native costume. For all of which reasons the present
somber happening had particular importance. A murder anywhere was bad
enough, but a murder in the newest, the _chic_-est, and the costliest
restaurant in Paris must cause more than a nine days' wonder. As M. Pougeot
remarked, it was certainly bad for Gritz.

Drawing up before the imposing entrance, they saw two policemen on guard at
the doors, one of whom, recognizing the commissary, came forward quickly to
the automobile with word that M. Gibelin and two other men from
headquarters had already arrived and were proceeding with the
investigation.

"Is Papa Tignol here?" asked Coquenil.

"Yes, sir," replied the man, saluting respectfully.

"Before I go in, Lucien, you'd better speak to Gibelin," whispered M. Paul.
"It's a little delicate. He's a good detective, but he likes the old-school
methods, and--he and I never got on very well. He has been sent to take
charge of the case, so--be tactful with him."

"He can't object," answered Pougeot. "After all, I'm the commissary of this
quarter, and if I need your services----"

"I know, but I'd sooner you spoke to him."

"Good. I'll be back in a moment," and pushing his way through the crowd of