The down in the courtyard it sounded, and out into the street, where a group of students started the old snappy refrain: "Oh, oh! Il nous faut-o!
Beau, beau! Beau Cocono-o!"
In vain the judge thundered admonitions and the clerk shouted for order. That white-faced, silent witness leaning on his cane, stood for the moment to these frantic people as the symbol of what they most admired in a man—resourcefulness before danger and physical courage and the readiness to die for a friend. For these three they seldom had a chance to shout and weep, so they wept and shouted now!
"Coquenil! Coquenil!"
There had been bitter moments in the great detective's life, but this made up for them; there had been proud, intoxicating moments, but this surpassed them. Coquenil, too, had a new sensation!
When at length the tumult was stilled and the panting, sobbing audience had settled back in their seats, the presiding judge, lenient at heart to the disorder, proceeded gravely with his examination.
"Please state what you know about this case," he said, and again the audience waited in deathlike stillness.
"There is no need of many words," answered M. Paul; then pointing an accusing arm at De Heidelmann-Bruck, "I know that this man shot Enrico Martinez on the night of July 4th, at the Ansonia Hotel."
The audience gave a long-troubled sigh, the nobleman sat rigid on his chair, the judge went on with his questions.
"You say you know this?" he demanded sharply.
"I know it," declared Coquenil, "I have absolute proof of it—here." He drew from his inner coat the baron's diary and handed it to the judge.