As Coquenil listened, his mouth drew into an ominous thin line and his deep eyes burned angrily.
"M. Gritz," he said in a cold, cutting voice, "you are a man of intelligence, you must be. This crime was committed last night about nine o'clock; it's now half past three in the morning. Will you please tell me how it happens that this fact of vital importance has been concealed from the police for over six hours?"
"Why," stammered the other, "I—I don't know."
"Are you trying to shield some one? Who is this man that engaged Number Seven?"
Gritz shook his head unhappily. "I don't know his name."
"You don't know his name?" thundered Coquenil.
"We have to be discreet in these matters," reasoned the other. "We have many clients who do not give us their names, they have their own reasons for that; some of them are married, and, as a man of the world, I respect their reserve." M. Gritz prided himself on being a man of the world. He had started as a penniless Swiss waiter and had reached the magnificent point where broken-down aristocrats were willing to owe him money and sometimes borrow it—and he appreciated the honor.
"But what do you call him?" persisted Coquenil. "You must call him something."
"In speaking to him we call him 'monsieur'; in speaking of him we call him 'the tall blonde.'"
"The tall blonde!" repeated M. Paul.