"Yes."

"You remembered what I told you?"

The old man looked hurt. "Of course I did. I haven't touched it. Nothing
could make me touch it."

"Good! Papa Tignol, I want you to stay here until I come back. Things are
marching along."

Again he rejoined the seamstress and, with his serious, friendly air, he
began: "And you still think that shining object was thrown from the
_second_ window?"

"No, no! How stupid you are!" And then in confusion: "I beg a thousand
pardons, I am nervous. I thought I told you plainly it was the end window."

"Thanks, my good woman," replied M. Paul. "Now go right back to your room
and don't breathe a word of this to anyone."

"But," she stammered, "would monsieur be so kind as to say what the bright
object was?"

The detective bent nearer and whispered mysteriously: "It was a comb, a
silver comb!"

"_Mon Dieu!_ A silver comb!" exclaimed the unsuspecting spinster.

"Now back to your room and finish brushing your hair," he urged, and the