"See!" he exclaimed. "There is a motor-car coming in a hurry. I fancy that the alarm must have been given."
A grey, heavily-built car came along at a great pace and swung round in front of the Hotel de Paris. The two men stood on the pavement and watched. A tall, official-looking person, with black, upturned moustache, in somber uniform and a peaked cap, descended.
"The Commissioner of Police," Selingman whispered, "and that is a doctor who has just gone in. He has been found!"
They crossed the road to the hotel. The concierge removed his hat as they turned to enter. To all appearances he was unchanged—fat, florid, splendid. Draconmeyer stepped close to him.
"Has anything happened here, Peter?" he asked. "I saw the Commissioner of Police arrive in a great hurry."
The man hesitated. It was obvious then that he was disturbed. He looked to the right and to the left. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he seemed to make up his mind to tell the truth.
"It is the English gentleman, Sir Henry Hunterleys," he whispered. "He has been found stabbed to death in his room."
"Dead?" Draconmeyer demanded, insistently.
"Stone dead, sir," the concierge replied. "He was stabbed by some one who stole in through the bathroom—they say that he couldn't ever have moved again. The Commissioner of Police is upstairs. The ambulance is round at the back to take him off to the Mortuary."
Selingman suddenly seized the man by the arm. His eyes were fixed upon the topmost step. Violet stood there, smiling down upon them. She was wearing a black and white gown, and a black hat with white ospreys. It was the hour of five o'clock tea and many people were passing in and out. She came gracefully down the steps. The two men remained speechless.