The story is a lively detective story, and the book opens with a murder and closes with the revelation of the name of the murderer. A picture on the retina of the eye of the murdered man was at first thought to be a clue by which the assassin's name could be discovered. Kodaks, Rontgen rays, and all the most modern inventions find a place in this thrilling story, which is crowded with incident, adventure, and Gallic wit. Those who like murder stories will find this a novel one, and will follow the philosophical and persistent detective, Bernardet, with keen interest as he works out the various clues that at last lead him to the discovery of the criminal who murdered M. Rovere.
you choose to your aid. But I am not a Magistrate. You must go for a Commissary of Police."
"Oh, M. Bernardet," Moniche exclaimed. "You are worth more than all the Commissaries put together."
"That does not make it so. A Commissary is a Commissary. Go and hunt for one."
"But since you are here"----
"But I am nothing. We must have a magistrate."
"You are not a magistrate, then?"
"I am simply a police spy."
Then he crossed the street.
The neighbors had gathered about the door like a swarm of flies around a honey-comb. A rumor had spread about which brought together a crowd animated by the morbid curiosity which is aroused in some minds of the hint of a mystery, and attracted by that strange magnetism which that sinister thing, "a crime," arouses. The women talked in shrill tones, inventing strange stories and incredible theories. Some of the common people hurried up to learn the news.
At the moment Bernardet came up, followed by the concierge, a co