There was confusion in the corridor. Men were running, voices were crying questions. As they passed the window they saw Wethermill start up, aroused from his lethargy. They knew the truth before they reached the entrance of the hotel. A cab had driven up to the door from the station; in the cab was an unknown woman stabbed to the heart. "She should have come by the omnibus," Hanaud repeated and repeated stupidly. For the moment he was off his balance. CHAPTER XI THE UNOPENED LETTER The hall of the hotel had been cleared of people. At the entrance from the corridor a porter barred the way. "No one can pass," said he. "I think that I can," said Hanaud, and he produced his card. "From the Surete at Paris." He was allowed to enter, with Ricardo at his heels. On the ground lay Marthe Gobin; the manager of the hotel stood at her side; a doctor was on his knees. Hanaud gave his card to the manager. "You have sent word to the police?" "Yes," said the manager. "And the wound?" asked Hanaud, kneeling on the ground beside the doctor. It was a very small wound, round and neat and clean, and there was very little blood. "It was made by a bullet," said Hanaud--"some tiny bullet from an air-pistol." "No," answered the doctor. "No knife made it," Hanaud asserted. "That is true," said the doctor. "Look!" and he took up from the floor by his knee the weapon which had caused Marthe Gobin's death. It was nothing but an ordinary skewer with a ring at one end and a sharp point at the other, and a piece of common white firewood for a handle. The wood had been split, the ring inserted and spliced in position with strong twine. It was a rough enough weapon, but an effective one. The proof of its effectiveness lay stretched upon the floor beside them. Hanaud gave it to the manager of the hotel. "You must be very careful of this, and give it as it is to the police." Then he bent once more over Marthe Gobin. "Did she suffer?" he asked in a low voice. "No; death must have been instantaneous," said the doctor. "I am glad of that," said Hanaud, as he rose again to his feet. In the doorway the driver of the cab was standing. "What has he to say?" Hanaud asked. The man stepped forward instantly. He was an old, red-faced, stout man, with a shiny white tall hat, like a thousand drivers of cabs. "What have I to say, monsieur?" he grumbled in a husky voice. "I take up the poor woman at the station and I drive her where she bids me, and I find her dead, and my day is lost. Who will pay my fare, monsieur?" "I will," said Hanaud. "There it is," and he handed the man a five-franc piece. "Now, answer me! Do you tell me that this woman was murdered in your cab and that you knew nothing about it?"