The sergeant, quite beside himself, ran to the outer door, where his subordinate was keeping good guard. “Japuzot!” he ordered, “run quick to the station and bring the chief. I have discovered a crime. I have just found it is a question of murder!” Meantime a confused clamour came from the crowd still thronging the landing, at the top of the stairs. Elisabeth Dollon, who had remained transfixed with terror in the outer room, was for coming to see what was happening. Opportunely enough the sergeant stopped her. “Stay where you are, mademoiselle,” he ordered, “it is not a sight for a young lady; the concierge will bear you company.” Then, as the gallant officer did not wish the place to be invaded by the curious crowd, nor yet to lose sight of the dubious individual within, he shut to the outer door of the flat. Leaving the people on the landing to their divers conjectures, he returned to the gruesome room, where the paper-hanger still remained. The latter was seated quietly on the floor, for there were no chairs in the room, and had lit a cigarette, and now, with the utmost composure, offered one to the sergeant. “There’s a bad smell,” he remarked, “it’s the corpse; will you smoke?” The sergeant, dumbfounded by the man’s calmness in presence of such tragic happenings, could not manage to light his cigarette; his lips were as tremulous as his hands. At last, at the third or fourth attempt, he succeeded; but he had not taken half a dozen puffs when his sense of discipline made him suddenly toss his cigarette out of the window. A peremptory ring had just sounded at the outer door, and the sergeant at once inferred it was the “chief” demanding admittance. He was right. The Commissary, a little, fat man, with an imposing corporation, dashed forward out of breath, hustling everybody to right and left, and hurried into the ill-omened room. His eyes fell first on the grim head that looked out, an image of horror, from the wall where it was imbedded. Then he turned to stare at the paper-hanger, who without the smallest show of respect towards the magistrate, remained sitting on the floor, still smoking with imperturbable aplomb. The magistrate demanded: “What’s to do here? Who are you? who is the man? how does he come there? what have you to say to it, yourself?” “There!” “What do you mean by ‘_there_’?” “There,” the paper-hanger concluded his sentence: “there’s what you want to know about, before your eyes.” The Commissary was boiling with impatience. “Why, of course I want to know. What’s been happening? How was this extraordinary discovery made?” The workman, getting to his feet at last: “I would point out to you, Monsieur le Commissaire,” he protested, “that it is not my business, but rather yours, to find out all this! None the less, I am very willing to help you and give you my co-operation.”