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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 er of the hotel stood at her side; a

doctor was on his knees Hanaud gave his card to the er

"You have sent word to the police?"

"Yes," said the round 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 skeith 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 theer of the hotel