The manager went himself, accompanied by Chapman. A few minutes after, he returned alone, running, with every mark of consternation on his face.
"Well?"
"Dead!"
"Murdered?"
"Yes."
"Oh, by thunder, how clever these scoundrels are!" roared M. Lenormand, "Off with you, Gourel, and have the doors of the hotel locked. . . . Watch every outlet. . . . And you, Mr. Manager, please take us to Gustave Beudot's room."
The manager led the way. But as they left the room, M. Lenormand stooped and picked up a tiny little round piece of paper, on which his eyes had already fixed themselves.
It was a label surrounded with a blue border and marked with the number 813. He put it in his pocket, on chance, and joined the others. . . .