Number Six?"

"No, sir, they were downstairs in the cloakroom."

"In the cloakroom!" He bounded to his feet. "_Bon sang de bon Dieu!_ Quick!
Fool! Don't you understand?"

This outburst stirred Joseph to unexampled efforts; he fairly hurled his
massive body down the stairs, and a few moments later returned, panting but
happy, with news that the lady in Number Six had left a cloak and leather
bag in the cloakroom. These articles were still there.

"Ah, that is something!" murmured the commissary, and he hurried down to
see the things for himself.

The cloak was of yellow silk, embroidered in white, a costly garment from a
fashionable maker; but there was nothing to indicate the wearer. The bag
was a luxurious trifle in Brazilian lizard skin, with solid-gold mountings;
but again there was no clew to the owner, no name, no cards, only some
samples of dress goods, a little money, and an unmarked handkerchief.

"Don't move these things," directed M. Pougeot. "It's possible some one
will call for them, and if anyone _should_ call, why--that's Gibelin's
affair. Now we'll see these Americans."

It was a quarter past ten, and the hilarity of proceedings at the
Fourth-of-July banquet (no ladies present) had reached its height. A very
French-looking student from Bridgeport, Connecticut, had just started an
uproarious rendering of "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," with Latin-Quarter
variations, when there came a sudden hush and a turning of heads toward the