ushed 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."

[Illustration: "'There it lies to the left of that heavy doorway.'"]

"Wait!" and, speaking to Tignol in a low tone, M. Paul gave him quick
instructions, whereupon the old man hurried across the street and pulled
the bell at the doorway indicated.

"Is he going to see what it was?" asked the spinster eagerly.

"Yes, he is going to see what it was," and at that moment the door swung
open and Papa Tignol disappeared within.

"Did you happen to see the person who threw this thing?" continued M. Paul
gently.

"No, but I saw his arm."

Coquenil gave a start of satisfaction. "His arm? Then a man threw it?"

"Oh, yes, I saw his black coat sleeve and his white cuff quite plainly."

"But not his face?"

"No, only the arm."

"Do you remember the window from which he threw this object?" The detective
looked at her anxiously.

"Yes, indeed, it is easy to remember; it's the end window, on the first
floor of the hotel. There!"

Coquenil felt a thrill of excitement, for, unless he had misunderstood the
commissary's diagram, the seamstress was pointing not to private room
Number Six, _but to private room Number Seven!_

"Lucien!" he called, and, taking his friend aside, he asked: "Does that end
window on the first floor belong to Number Six or Number Seven?"

"Number Seven."

"And the window next to it?"

"Number Six."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely sure."

"Thanks. Just a moment," and he rejoined th