When questioned, the stupefied host could only point toward the splintered window frame.
Through this the men scrambled, and presently their yells died away in the distance.
A young man of ruddy countenance, his body clothed in the garments of a gentleman's lackey, stooped and gathered up the cloak.
"Holy Virgin!" he murmured, his eyes bulging, "there can not be two cloaks like this in Paris; it's the very same." He crushed it under his arm and in the general confusion gained the alley, took to his legs, and became a moving black shadow in the grey.
He made off toward the Seine.
Meanwhile terror stalked in the corridors of the hotel.

Lights flashed from window to window.

The court was full of servants and mercenaries.
For the master lay dead in the corridor above.

A beautiful young woman, dressed in her night-robes, her feet in slippers, hair disordered and her eyes fixed with horror, gazed down at the lifeless shape.

The stupor of sleep still held her in its dulling grasp.