ss took the stand.

"Paul Coquenil," was the quiet answer.

It was the needed word, the spark to fire the train. Paul Coquenil! Never
in modern times had a Paris courtroom witnessed a scene like that which
followed. Pussy Wilmott, who spent her life looking for new sensations, had
one now. And Kittredge manacled in the dock, yet wildly happy! And Alice
outside, almost fainting between hope and fear! And De Heidelmann-Bruck
with his brave eyeglass and groveling soul! They _all_ had new sensations!

As Coquenil spoke, there went up a great cry from the audience, an
irresistible tribute to his splendid bravery. It was spontaneous, it was
hysterical, it was tremendous. Men and women sprang to their feet, shouting
and waving and weeping. The crowd, crushed in the corridor, caught the cry
and passed it along.

"Coquenil! Coquenil!"

The down in the courtyard it sounded, and out into the street, where a
group of students started the old snappy refrain:

"Oh, oh! Il nous faut-o!
Beau, beau! Beau Cocono-o!"

In vain the judge thundered admonitions and the clerk shouted for order.
That white-faced, silent witness leaning on his cane, stood for the moment
to these frantic people as the symbol of what they most admired in a
man--resourcefulness before danger and physical courage and the readiness
to die for a friend. For these three they seldom had a chance to shout and
weep, so they wept and shouted now!

"Coquenil! Coquenil!"

There had been bitter moments in the great detective's life, but this made
up for them; there had been proud, intoxicating moments, but this surpassed
them. Coquenil, too, had a new sensation!

When at length the tumult was stilled and the panting, sobbing audience had
settled back in their seats, the presiding judge, lenient at heart to the
disorder, proceeded gravely with his examination.

"Please state what you know about this case," he said, and again the
audience waited in deathlike stillness.

"There is no need of many words," answered M. Paul; then pointing an
accusing arm at De Heidelmann-Bruck, "I know that this man shot Enrico
Martinez on the night of July 4th, at the Ansonia Hotel."

The audience gave a long-troubled sigh, the nobleman sat rigid on his
chair, the judge went on with his questions.

"You say you _know_ this?" he demanded sharply.

"I know it," declared Coquenil, "I have absolute proof of it--here." He
drew from his inner coat the baron's diary and handed i