But when the porter's wife came shrieking into the street early one
summer's morning, with wildest terror depicted in her face, and
shaking like a jelly, the police felt bound to come to the front.
"Has madame seen a ghost?" asked a stern official in a cocked hat and
sword, accosting her abruptly.
"No, no! Fetch the commissary, quick! A crime has been committed--a
terrible crime!" she gasped.
This was business, and the police-officer knew what he had to do.
"Run, Jules," he said to a colleague. "You know where M. Bontoux
lives. Tell him he is wanted at the Hotel Paradis." Then, turning to
the woman, he said, "Now, madame, explain yourself."
"It is a murder, I am afraid. A gentleman has been stabbed."
"What gentleman? Where?"
"In the drawing-room, upstairs. I don't know his name, but he came
here frequently. My husband will perhaps be able to tell you; he is
there."
"Lead on," said the police-officer; "take me to the place. I will see
to it myself."
They passed into the hotel through the inner portal, and up the stairs
to the first floor, where the principal rooms were situated--three of
them furnished and decorated magnificently, altogether out of keeping
with the miserable exterior of the house, having enormous mirrors from
ceiling to floor, gilt cornices, damask hangings, marble console
tables, and chairs and sofas in marqueterie and buhl.
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