The stout little journalist looked pathetically disappointed. For the
moment he had no thought beyond the professional aspect of the
matter--the unearthing of a "good story"--and the human significance of
what he had found was entirely out of mind. He turned over the coat and
stick in obvious perplexity, as though they ought somehow to contain the
key to the puzzle if only he could see it. Then he examined the traces
of footsteps on the damp earth by the water-side. There was another set
of footprints beside their own--no doubt the footprints of the man who
had first found the objects and 'phoned to the _Chronicle_.

"What are you going to do next?" asked the young clerk.

"Take them to the police?"

Martin looked up and down the river bank. That part of the Seine is
usually deserted except for nursemaids and children and an occasional
workman. At the moment there was apparently no one in sight.

"You don't know the Paris police--that's evident," returned the
journalist. "They would throw fits on the floor if I were so much as to
carry off a coat-button. No, we must hide the coat and stick in the
bushes again, and tell them to-morrow."

"Why to-morrow?"

"Twenty-four hours' start is due to my owners, bless their sensational
little hearts. If nothing further comes to light, then the press steps
aside and allows the law to take its course. Meanwhile to the Morgue
and the Malesherbes. We'll pick up a cab on the Avenue de Neuilly.