The next minute M. Bontoux entered, accompanied by his clerk and the official doctor of the quarter.

“A crime,” said the commissary, slowly, and with as much dignity as was possible in a middle-aged gentleman pulled from his bed at daybreak, and compelled to dress in a hurry.  “A crime,” he repeated.  “Of that there can be no doubt.  But let us establish the fact formally.  Where are the witnesses?”

The porter, having relinquished the care of the wounded man to the doctor, stood up slowly and saluted the commissary.

“Very well; tell us what you know.  Sit down”—­this to the clerk.  “Produce your writing-materials and prepare the report.”

“It must have been about four this morning, but I was very drowsy, and the gentlemen had nearly all gone,” said the night porter, speaking fluently, “when I was disturbed by the noise of a quarrel, a fight, up here in the principal drawing-room.  While I was still rubbing my eyes, for I was very drowsy, and fancied I was dreaming, I heard a scream, a second, and a third, followed by a heavy fall on the floor.  I rushed upstairs then, and found this poor gentleman as you see him.”

“Alone?”

“Quite alone.”

“But there must have been other people here.  Did they come down the stairs past you?”

“No, sir; they must have escaped by that window.  It was open—­”

The commissary looked at the police-officer, who nodded intelligently.

“I had already noticed it, Mr. Commissary.  The window gives upon a low roof, which communicates with the back street.  Escape would be quite easy from that side.”

“Well,” said the commissary, “and you found this gentleman?  Do you know him?  His name?  Have you ever seen him before?”

“He is M. le Baron d’Enot; he is a constant visitor at the house.  Very fortunate, I believe, and I heard he won largely last night.”

“Ah!” said the commissary.  This fact was important, as affording a reason for the crime.  “And do you suspect any one?  Have you any idea who was here at the last?”

“I scarcely noticed the gentlemen as they went away; it would be impossible for me, therefore, to say who remained.”

“Then there is no clue—­”

“Hush!  Mr. Commissary.”  It was the doctor’s exclamation.  “The victim is still alive, and is trying, I think, to speak.”  Evidence given at the point of death has extreme value in every country, under every kind of law.  The commissary therefore bent his head, closely attentive to catch any words the dying man might utter.

“Water! water!” he gasped out.  “Revenge me; it was a foul and cowardly blow.”

“Who struck you, can you tell us?  Do you know him?” inquired the commissary, eagerly.

“Yes.  I—­know—­” The voice grew visibly weaker; it sank into a whisper, and could speak only in monosyllables.

“His name—­quick!”

“There—­were—­three—­I had no chance—­Gas—­coigne—­”