On entering, he seated himself at a table near the door that appeared to be an excellent observatory, from where he could easily survey the street. A waiter asked him what he would have, and he ordered coffee. He gave this order mechanically, without thinking what he was saying, and not till afterward did he wonder if it were natural to take coffee at this hour. The men seated at the other tables drank appetizers or beer. Had he not made a blunder? But everything seemed a blunder, as everything seemed dangerous. Could he not regain his composure and his reason? He drank his coffee slowly; then he asked for a newspaper. The street was quiet, and people left the cafe one by one. Behind his newspaper he reflected. It was his feverish curiosity that made him admit that Caffie’s death would be discovered during the evening. In reality, it might easily remain undiscovered until the next day. But he could not stay in the cafe until the next day, nor even until midnight. Perhaps he had remained there too long already. He did not wish to go yet, so he ordered writing materials, and paid the waiter, in case he might wish to go hastily--if anything occurred. What should he write? He wished to test himself, and found that he was able to write clearly, and to select the proper words; but when he came to read it over, his will failed him. Time passed. Suddenly there was a movement under the porte-cochere of “the house,” and a man ran through the street. Two or three persons stopped in a group. Without hurrying too much, Saniel went out, and in a strong voice asked what had happened. “An agent of business has been assassinated in his office. Word has been sent to the police bureau in the Rue du Hasard.” CHAPTER XIV. THE EXAMINATION Saniel was there to observe, without having decided what he should do. Instantly, with the decision that had “failed him so often during his vigil,” he resolved to go to Caffie’s. Was he not a doctor, and the physician of the dead-man? What could be more natural? “A money-lender!” he exclaimed. “Is it Monsieur Caffie?” “Exactly.” “But I am his doctor.” “A doctor! Here is a doctor!” cried several voices. The crowd parted, and Saniel passed under the porte-cochere, where the concierge, half fainting, was seated on a chair, surrounded by all the maids of the house and several neighbors, to whom she related the news. By using his elbows he was able to approach her. “Who has said Monsieur Caffie is dead?” he asked with authority. “No one has said he is dead; at least, I have not.” “Well, then?” “There is a stain of blood that has run from his office down to the landing; and as he is at home, since the light of his lamp is seen in the court, and he never leaves it burning when he goes to dinner, something must have happened. And why are his curtains drawn? He always leaves them open.”