half-open door, through which a voice was heard in peremptory command.
Something had happened, something serious, if one could judge by the face
of François, the head waiter, who stood at the corridor entrance.

"Not so fast," he insisted, holding the young men back, and a moment later
there entered a florid-faced man with authoritative mien, closely followed
by two policemen.

"Horns of a purple cow!" muttered the Bridgeport art student, who loved
eccentric oaths. "The house is pulled!"

"Gentlemen," began M. Pougeot, while the company listened in startled
silence, "I am sorry to interrupt this pleasant gathering, especially as I
understand that you are celebrating your national holiday; unfortunately, I
have a duty to perform that admits of no delay. While you have been
feasting and singing, as becomes your age and the occasion, an act of
violence has taken place within the sound of your voices--I may say under
cover of your voices."

He paused and swept his eyes in keen scrutiny over the faces before him, as
if trying to read in one or the other of them the answer to some question
not yet asked.

"My friends," he continued, and now his look became almost menacing, "I am
here as an officer of the law because I have reason to believe that a guest
at this banquet is connected with a crime committed in this restaurant
within the last hour or two."

So extraordinary was this accusation and so utterly unexpected that for
some moments no one spoke. Then, after the first dismay, came indignant