The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. “Well, well, Martin. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. I know all about it. ‘How do you do? I am so happy to meet you. Be frank, I beg you, Miss Pellissier. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. The last piece was Scheherazade.
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