Marc Chagall Painting

Well，"I said presently，smiling，"has this super crime turned up yet?" "Pas encore.At least-that is-"He paused.A frown of perplexity creasedhis forehead.His hands automatically straightened an object or two that Ihad inadvertently pushed awry. "I am not sure，"he said slowly. There was something so odd about his tone that I looked at him insurprise. The frown still lingered. Suddently with a brief decisive nod of the head he crossed the room to adesk near the window.Its contents，I need hardly say，were all neatlydocketed and pigeon-holed so that he was able at once to lay his hand uponthe paper he wanted.
He came slowly across to me，an open letter in his hand.He read itthrough himself，then passed it to me. "Tell me，mon ami，"he said."What do you make of this?" I took it from him with some interest.