"Yes?" urged the detective with growing interest.

"For several nights last week he waited and nothing happened. But he's a
patient little shrimp, so he waited again Saturday night and--something
_did_ happen. Saturday night!"

"The night of the murder," reflected the commissary.

"That's it. It was a little after midnight, he says, and suddenly, as he
stood waiting and listening, he heard a cautious step coming along the
balcony from the direction of the medical student's room, G. Then he saw a
man pass his window, and he was sure it was the medical student. He stepped
out softly and followed him as far as the window of room C. Then, feeling
certain his suspicions were justified, he sprang upon the man from behind,
intending to chastise him, but he had caught the wrong pig by the ear, for
the man turned on him like a flash and--_it wasn't the medical student_."

"Who was it? Go on!" exclaimed the others eagerly.

"He doesn't know who it was, or anything about the man except that his hand
shut like a vise on the shrimp's throat and nearly choked the life out of
him. You can see the nail marks still on the cheek and neck; but he
remembers distinctly that the man carried something in his hand."

"My God! The missing pair of boots!" cried Coquenil. "Was it?"

Tignol nodded. "Sure! He was carrying 'em loose in his hand. I mean they
were not wrapped up, he was going to leave 'em in Kittredge's room--here it
is, A." He pointed to the diagram.

"It's true, it must be true," murmured M. Paul. "And what then?"

"Nothing. I guess the man saw it was only a shrimp he had hold of, so he
shook him two or three times and dropped him back into his own room; _and
he never said a word_."

"And the boots?"

"He must have taken the boots with him. The shrimp peeped out and saw him
go back into this room F, which has been empty for several weeks. Then he
heard steps on the stairs and the slam of the heavy street door. The man
was gone."

Coquenil's face grew somber. "It was the assassin," he said; "there's no
doubt about it."

"Mightn't it have been some one he sent?" suggested Pougeot.

"No--that would have meant trusting his secret to another man, and he
hasn't trusted anyone. Besides, the fierce way he turned on the
photographer shows his nervous tension. It was the murderer himself and--"
The detective stopped short at the flash of a new thought. "Great heavens!"
he cried, "I can prove it, I can settle the thing right