"No," I said. "Unfortunately, we haven't any Monsieur Lecoqs on our detective force." "Ah, no," he smiled. "And the young lady--in her I conceived a great interest, even though I did not see her--how is she?" "The shock was a little too much for her," I said. "She's gone out to her country-place to rest. She'll soon be all right again, I hope." He had taken a third cigarette, and was lighting it carelessly, with his face half-turned away from me. I noticed how flushed his neck was. "Oh, undoubtedly," he agreed, after a moment; "at least, I should be most sad to think otherwise. But it is late; I perceive that you are weary; I thank you for your kindness." "Not at all," I protested. "I hope you'll come in whenever you feel lonely." "A thousand thanks! I shall avail myself of your invitation. My apartment is just across the hall," he added, as I opened the door. "I trust to see you there." "You shall," I said heartily, and bade him good-night. In the week that followed, I saw a good deal of Martigny. I would meet him on the stairs or in the hall; he came again to see me, and I returned his visit two nights later, upon which occasion he produced two bottles of Chateau Yquem of a delicacy beyond all praise. And I grew more and more to like him--he told me many stories of Paris, which, it seemed, had always been his home, with a wit to which his slight accent and formal utterance gave new point; he displayed a kindly interest in my plans which was very pleasing; he was always tactful, courteous, good-humored. He was plainly a boulevardier, a man of the world, with an outlook upon life a little startling in its materiality, but interesting in its freshness, and often amusing in its frankness. And he seemed to return my liking--certainly it was he who sought me, not I who sought him. He was being delayed, he explained, in establishing his business; he could not get just the quarters he desired, but in another week there would be a place vacant. He would ask me to draw up the lease. Meanwhile, time hung rather heavily on his hands. "Though I do not quarrel with that," he added, sitting in my room one evening. "It is necessary for me that I take life easily. I have a weakness of the heart, which has already given me much trouble. Besides, I have your companionship, which is most welcome, and for which I thank you. I trust Mees--Mees--what you call--Holladay is again well." "We haven't heard from her," I said. "She is still at her place in the country." "Oh, she is doubtless well--in her I take such an interest--you will pardon me if I weary you." "Weary me? But you don't!" "Then I will make bold to ask you--have you made any--what you call--theory of the crime?" "No," I answered; "that is, none beyond what was in the newspapers--the illegitimate daughter theory. I suppose you saw it. That seems to fit the case."