"What is it, my friend?" asked Coquenil good-naturedly.
At this the proprietor coughed in embarrassment and motioned to a prim, thin-faced woman in the front room who came forward with fidgety shyness, begging the gentlemen to forgive her if she had done wrong, but there was something on her conscience and she couldn't sleep without telling it.
"Well?" broke in Pougeot impatiently, but Coquenil gave the woman a reassuring look and she went on to explain that she was a spinster living in a little attic room of the next house, overlooking the Rue Marboeuf. She worked as a seamstress all day in a hot, crowded atelier, and when she came home at night she loved to go out on her balcony, especially these fine summer evenings. She would stand there and brush her hair while she watched the sunset deepen and the swallows circle over the chimney tops. It was an excellent thing for a woman's hair to brush it a long time every night; she always brushed hers for half an hour—that was why it was so thick and glossy.
"But, my dear woman," smiled Coquenil, "what has that to do with me? I have very little hair and no time to brush it."
The seamstress begged his pardon, the point was that on the previous evening, just as she had nearly finished brushing her hair, she suddenly heard a sound like a pistol shot from across the street, and looking down, she saw a glittering object thrown from a window. She saw it distinctly and watched where it fell beyond the high wall that separated the Ansonia Hotel from an adjoining courtyard. She had not thought much about it at the moment, but, having heard that something dreadful had happened——
Coquenil could contain himself no longer and, taking the woman's arm, he hurried her to the door.
"Now," he said, "show me just where you saw this glittering object thrown over the wall."
"There," she replied, pointing, "it lies to the left of that heavy doorway on the courtyard stones. I could see it from my balcony."
