The regular boarders of the Hôtel de France, after the fashion of folks who find their meal a duty to be promptly despatched, had departed, but the transients still lingered over their _café noir_ and cognac in the hope that something exciting might materialize. As the sound of Fernet’s voice died away, a man who had been sitting in an extreme corner of the room scraped back his chair and rose. Fernet looked up. The man was a hunchback, and, instead of paying for his meal and leaving, he crossed over and said to Fernet, in the most perfect French imaginable: “I see, my young fellow, that you are discussing something of interest with your friends here. Would it be impertinent for me to inquire into the subject?” Fernet drew out a chair for the newcomer, who seated himself. “By no means. We were discussing a murder and suicide. The murdered man was an Italian fisherman who lodged at the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes, the suicide was a musician named Suvaroff.” “Ah,” said the hunchback, cracking his fingers. “Why a murder and suicide? Why not two murders?” “Because,” returned Fernet, pompously, “it was abundantly proved to the contrary. This man Suvaroff suffered from neuralgia; the Italian fisherman was given to playing the accordion at all hours of the night. Suvaroff was, in addition, a musician—a high-strung person. The Italian’s playing was abominable—even his landlady says as much. In short, Suvaroff deliberately killed this simple-minded peasant because of his music. Then, in a fit of remorse, he killed himself. I leave it to any one here to dispute the fact. Besides, I was on the coroner’s jury. I should know what I am talking about.” “Oh, without doubt,” agreed the hunchback, smiling amiably. “But, as I remember, the knives in both cases were plunged hilt-deep into the backs of the victims. One does not usually commit suicide in this fashion.” Fernet coldly eyed the curiously handsome face of his antagonist. “It seems you know more about this thing than a coroner’s jury,” he sneered. “It seems I do—granting that such an important item was left out of the evidence.” “Then, my good sir, will you be good enough to tell me who _did_ kill Suvaroff, since you do not admit that he died by his own hand?” The hunchback cracked his fingers again. “That is simple enough. Suvaroff was killed by the same person who stabbed the Italian.” “And who might that be, pray?” The hunchback rose with a malignant smile. “Ah, if I told you that you would know as much as I do, my friend.” And with that he walked calmly over to the proprietor, put down thirty-five cents for his meal upon the counter, and without another word left the room. A silence fell upon the group. Everybody stared straight ahead, avoiding the eye of his neighbor. It was as if something too terrifying to be remarked had passed them. Finally, a thick-set man at Fernet’s right, with a purple wart on his cheek, said, uneasily, “Come, I must be going.”