Slater was growing restive. It was going on for six weeks now that he had been in the Tombs. The warrant from Washington for which he, Warnock and Pyper seemed to have been interminably waiting arrived at last on 11 February.

Mr Warnock scuttled frantically – but happily – around New York, finally managing to fix up berths for the three of them on the Anchor Line’s Columbia, sailing for Glasgow at noon on 13 February: estimated time of arrival in the Clyde, Sunday, 21 February.

A complaining ‘Mrs’ Slater was booked, third class, aboard the Cunarder Campania, under the anagrammatic identity, Salter. She landed at Liverpool on 17 February and proceeded, via London, to her home in Paris.1

Oscar and his two guardians were accommodated in one of the Columbia’s pair of hospital rooms; large, airy and lockfast. Oscar afterwards wrote:

I was favoured with the very painstaking attendance of a very nice stewardess or nurse. She asked me every morning how I had slept, and my answer was that I had slept well. She told me that if I had not been in that cabin, she would have had the comfort of the bed. I thereupon asked her if it was her pillow that I was sleeping on, and when she answered in the affirmative I at once informed her, much to her amusement, that therein lay the reason for my customary sweet repose.

There spake the practised lady-charmer, the Beau Brummell of the brothel.

Throughout the voyage, Slater was usually cheery, but there were several occasions when he suffered fits of despondency, and wept bitterly.

There was a lot of snow and the Columbia passed through a fair amount of loose ice, but inside the hospitable hospital room all was snug, and the ice-floes went unnoticed. The Columbia ploughed on. Oscar leant back in his chair, lit a small cigar, and, with a confident if not contented heart, awaited landfall.

In those faraway, long ago days of the ‘Atlantic greyhounds’, a popular post-kirk Sunday pastime was to go down to the river-bank and watch the great liners steam in majesty up the Clyde. Generally, weather sufficiently enticing, three or four hundred folk would be out big ship-spotting, but on this hazy, though fine, February Sunday, huge crowds had been gathering since early morning, every eye scanning the horizon for the Columbia, with – as their newspapers had told them – Oscar Slater a prisoner aboard.

As twelve noon struck, the huge bulk of the Columbia hove into view and came, almost imperceptibly, to a stop at the Tail o’ the Bank, off Greenock. ‘Here she comes!’ the shout went up at Stobcross Quay as the great ship swung round the bend of the river at Yorkhill, a mere couple of miles west of Queen Street Station, right in the centre of Glasgow. The swing-bridge was bedecked, and the ferry steps opposite the Anchor Line berthing shed were buttered thick with neck-craning scrutators.

But … no Slater.

Then came the news: he was already safely lodged in the Central Police Office in St Andrew’s Square. When the Columbia had previously come to a standstill, a tender, the Anchor Line’s Express, had drawn alongside and taken him and his escort off. Watched by practically all the ship’s passengers, they had departed down the gangway from the Columbia to the Express, Pyper in front, then Slater, handcuffed to him, Warnock behind. About to descend, Slater had just raised his hat in courteous farewell salutation to the crowded rail of spectators, when something most uncalled for happened.

Oscar recalled:

I had just left the liner and had received the handshake and the good wishes of the captain, the doctor, and the purser. I was handcuffed, and as I got on to the tender one of the members of the crew kicked me. There was not the slightest provocation for it. I did not know the man and I had not spoken to him. I turned round and said that was not a fair thing to do seeing that I had not even been tried on the charge that had been preferred against me. It hurt me more mentally than it did physically.

It was a presignatorily symbolic ending to Oscar’s 3,000-mile journey to face the out-of-tune music. He now exchanged his apartment in the Tombs for Cell No. 4, Hall D, of the penitentiary in Duke Street, Glasgow.

Outside the prison walls, February slid into March, and March was moving rapidly towards April. Inside, time dragged and lay heavily. But Oscar had made some progress. He had found himself an excellent and dedicated agent or solicitor in Ewing Speirs, writer, of Messrs Joseph Shaughnessy & Sons. He had found a devoted champion in the Reverend Mr Eleazer Philip Phillips, Minister of the Hebrew Community in Glasgow, who, sternly convinced of Slater’s blamelessness, had set himself the task of opening a defence fund on Oscar’s behalf. But Glaswegian Jewry was showing scant disposition to come to the aid of a compatriot in distress, responding with neither emotional nor financial generosity to his plight. Indeed, Rabbi Phillips was advised in pikestaff-plain terms that in offering succour to Slater, he was ‘acting in his personal capacity and not as a minister of the synagogue’. It seems pretty certain that it was Slater’s clear prior involvement in the seamier side of the city’s life, his widely advertised status as a pimp and gambler, that went fatally against him.

On Friday, 23 April, Oscar Slater was taken from Duke Street Prison and delivered to the governor of Calton Gaol, in Edinburgh. His trial date was fixed as 3 May, 1909. As April’s last snail-paced days wore away, Oscar, like a knight of old preparing for battle, made ready the armour of smart clothing that hung waiting in the wardrobe of his self-esteem. He would enter the lists a martial dandy, to whatever end.

On Saturday, 1 May, Andrée arrived in Edinburgh. She put up at Houston’s Temperance Hotel, 31 Lothian Road.

Two days to go.

The Weekly Mail of 1 May, 1909 nudged its readers:

The beginning of the end has come. Oscar Slater appears before Lord Guthrie in Edinburgh on Monday to answer the most serious charge that can be brought against any man – the charge of murder.

In fact, Monday brought only the end of the beginning.

The trial of Oscar Slater was an utter disgrace. Special circumstances so ordained it. For the Lord Advocate, Alexander Ure, KC, MP, it became a personal issue. He had only just been appointed, and this was to be his first big trial. He was to present the prosecution case. It would be his first public performance in his new rôle, and he was ambitiously anxious to do well, to win. This boded ill for Oscar, for it implied the possibility at least that the new broom might sweep aside the niceties of the traditionally neutral, which is to say emotionally uncharged, presentation of the evidence by the prosecution in capital cases.

A second misfortune was the character, the unconscious bias, of the judge. Charles John Guthrie was a profoundly good and honest man, but he was a son of the manse, far happier inspecting the morally sanitised ranks of the Boys’ Brigade, of which he was to become the National President, than presiding over the distasteful aftermath of the criminal evil that men do. A foreign pimp such as Slater would have been, indeed was, anathema to him. It could, and did, warp his judgment.

The merry month of May was ushered in shivery as a shorn lamb. Winter was lingering in the lap of spring.

Monday, 3 May 1909. Up on the chilly eminence of the high slopes of the High Street of Edinburgh, Parliament House stood bleak and empty. It was vacation time. The Courts were not sitting. All was forlorn. The long corridors – usually a bustle of court officers, policemen, witnesses, agents, and filled with bobbing wigs and fluttering gowns as a heavy traffic of advocates flitted from court to court, and to and from the Advocates’ Library – were silent and echoingly sepulchral, the advocates’ polished wooden boxes with their brass name-plates ranged along the walls looking like miniature coffins. Broodingly desolate, too, was the great Parliament Hall, normally presenting the lively and awesome spectacle of splendidly apparelled legal gentlemen, in deep thought and even deeper consultation, pacing gravely back and forth before the bright-burning fire and beneath the portraits of dead and gone judges, who gaze down in frozen, marmoreal dignity upon these their lineal successors.

The High Court of Justiciary, the supreme criminal court in Scotland, sat in Edinburgh in a fine late-Georgian court-room – No. 3 – which has been the scene of many of the country’s most notable trials. Ure, prosecuting Slater, was assisted by Mr Thomas Brash Morison, KC, Advocate Depute, a constitutionally stern man, later to become a notoriously stern judge, and Mr William Lyon, Advocate Depute, subsequent Sheriff of Ayr. Senior counsel for the defence was Mr Alexander Logan McClure, KC, Sheriff of Argyll, leading Mr John Mair.

Standing in the well of the court, a focus and magnet of attention, was a table on which the productions (anglice: exhibits) were laid out – 69 of them, overflowing on to the floor. They included various articles of wearing apparel, a red skin rug – bloodstained – Miss Gilchrist’s false teeth and skeins of her grey hair, a work-box, a jewel-case, an auger and a hammer, looking en masse like the contents of a serial killer’s car boot.

As the hand of the clock below the gallery touched the twenty-five minute mark, a trap-door in the floor immediately in front of the dock was raised, and, like a pantomime genie, the prisoner materialised from the nether regions and was escorted into the dock between two guardian constables.

Lord Guthrie, the vacation judge, an impressive figure in the robes of the Justiciary – white faced with scarlet crosses – took his seat on the dais. This raised bench where the judge sits is flanked by two fireplaces in which, on chilly days, bright fires burn for his Lordship’s comfort.

A jury of fifteen good men and true was empanelled and sworn.

Slater stood to hear the reading of the indictment.

His trial had begun. It was to last four days.

Since the virtually verbatim account of the trial, edited by William Roughead, is available in Hodge’s Notable British Trials series, it is not proposed to tax the limited space available in this volume by an unnecessary regurgitation in fine detail, but rather to refer the interested reader to the N.B.T. report.

In Scotland there are no opening speeches by counsel, as is the custom in England. The trial of Oscar Slater began with Lord Advocate Ure calling the first of 60 witnesses for the prosecution, as he set about his self-appointed task of painting as damning a picture of Slater and his activities as Crown delving had made possible.

Hungry for victory, he had selected three strongholds of defence denial for out-and-out attack, hopeful annihilation.

First, he would storm the position which asserted that Slater was not the man who had, on a great many occasions in the weeks preceding the murder, been seen by positive clouds of witnesses watching Miss Gilchrist’s premises.

His second onslaught would seek to destroy the claim that it was not the accused who had battered Miss Gilchrist with a hammer, and that Slater was not the man seen in the hall by Adams and Lambie.

Thirdly, he would bring his heavy artillery to bear to demolish the proposition that Slater had not fled the country, a fugitive from justice, following the publication of his description in the Glasgow papers on the afternoon of Christmas day.

Ure’s initial tactic was to establish in the jury’s mind that the accused sometimes dealt in jewellery. This was because he was postulating jewel-theft as the motive of the crime. He therefore called Jacob Jackson, a German warehouseman, to testify that, about the middle of November 1908, Slater had tried, unsuccessfully, to sell him a diamond ring. The abortive transaction had, of course, not the remotest connection with Miss Gilchrist’s missing brooch.

Ure’s next objective was, with the testimony of 13 assorted witnesses, to convince the jury that the mysterious stranger unquestionably seen repeatedly loitering about West Princes Street for some time before the murder was indeed Slater. But such was the conflict and dubiety of the evidence, that in this he was not successful.

The highlight of the first day came when Helen Lambie stepped up into the witness-box. It was crucial to the prosecution case that she should link the man in the Gilchristean hall with the man in the dock. She did her best, insisting now that she had not actually gone into the flat, but remained beside Mr Adams on the threshold as the man approached and walked out of the front-door. She was also now saying that she did see a part of the man’s face. ‘I got a good look at him.’ It was Slater. The Lord Advocate sat down well pleased with her and himself.

McClure was smartly on his feet, reading from the extradition proceedings and asking Lambie why, in America, she had said that she did not see the man’s face. ‘I did see his face,’ she replied. ‘There has been a bit left out’ [of the transcript]. McClure persisted. Lambie wriggled. She did not come out of it too well.

The following day (4 May), Detective Inspector John Pyper gave his evidence, and McClure, cross-examining, succeeded in bringing out the essentially unsatisfactory nature of Lambie and Barrowman’s identification evidence.

Arthur Adams, a pleasant-spoken man of rather slight build, with brown hair and a fair moustache, came across as being of a nervous and extremely conscientious temperament. He rendered his account of the discovery of the crime in a quick, nervy way. The vaguely bird-like Adams steadfastly declined to identify the prisoner as the man in the hall. All that he would say was that he closely resembled him.

Mary Barrowman, faced with a barrage of rapid-fire questions from McClure, stuck gamely to her guns, vehemently denying that she had identified Slater in New York because of a conversation she had had with Lambie while crossing the Atlantic, unshaken and unshakable in her belief that Slater was the running man with the twisted nose.

Professor Glaister opened the medical evidence, enunciating his theory that the assailant had knelt on Miss Gilchrist’s chest while striking violently at her head with a blunt instrument – most likely, he thought, something on the lines of the claw-hammer produced, which had been found in Slater’s trunk. McClure was very effective in cross, driving home the point that wounds so terrible must have given rise to massive bleeding, yet no unequivocal bloodstains could be discovered on anything belonging to his client.

Dr Hugh Galt, while accepting that the hammer exhibited could have been used, thought a heavier weapon more likely.

Professor Harvey Littlejohn considered it impossible that the auger from the back green at Queen’s Terrace could have inflicted the wounds.

On Day Three – 5 May – with 44 prosecution witnesses already heard, Ure still had 16 more to call. Relentlessly, the Lord Advocate steam-rollered on, flattening the ground for the first footings of his iron-clad case against the frankly bewildered Oscar.

For some time it had been becoming obvious that the fire had gone out of the belly of the prosecution case. The main facts had been told; all that remained was icing – very poor quality icing at that – on the Crown cake, and those spectators who had come hopeful of gladiatorial pyrotechnics were becoming increasingly bored by what savoured of pointless prolongation.

It was nevertheless the turn now of the defence and the 14 witnesses it had managed to scrape together. They did not, to be honest, make a very good showing. They were in the main a fairly dubious collection of characters hardly calculated to inspire confidence in the minds of righteous, upstanding, conventional Scottish jurors. Rather pathetically, it was the absolute best that Oscar could muster.

Hugh Cameron – the redoubtable Moudie – dressed dandiacal for the occasion in frock-coat, high collar with a dark blue scarf, held in position by a broad gold ring, its wink and glitter echoed by the conspicuous gold ring on his left hand, the ensemble completed by dark, striped trousers, white waistcoat with blue stripes and pearl buttons, traversed by a handsome gold watch chain with thick, fat links. He made an excellent impression in the witness-box, leaning with an actor’s ease on the ledge in front, speaking unhesitatingly in a natural, unaffected sort of way.

Slater’s face twitched and flushed a dull red when Cameron, asked bluntly by the Lord Advocate if it was not the case that the prisoner had been living on the proceeds of prostitution, agreed that that was so. This was the first of a number of instances of disgraceful behaviour on the part of Ure. There was absolutely no justification for his introducing such character assassination, for it had nothing whatever to do with the charge that Slater had murdered Miss Gilchrist. McClure should have protested at once. The judge should have intervened. Neither did anything.

Another of Oscar’s decidedly shady friends, Max Rattmann, followed the Moudie into the box. His testimony proved pretty worthless. Likewise that of Josef Aumann, a German gentleman possessed of the very slightest English vocabulary and the very grossest of foreign accents.

Now, at last, with the two final witnesses of the trial, the door of the mysterious household at No. 69 St George’s Road was surely about to be opened and the domestic life hidden behind it revealed. The young woman who had been sharing Oscar’s life, Mademoiselle Andrée Junio Antoine, was called. Amid a flutter of prurient excitement, she moved elegantly to the witness-box. Tall, pallid, she was quietly but modishly turned out – smart brown tweed costume with fur necklet, a sable fur around her shoulders, fashionable hat trimmed with broad-striped greenish ribbon. Her testimony, apart from her confirmation of Oscar’s whereabouts at the time of the murder, was disappointingly devoid of ‘revelations’. The Lord Advocate did not cross-examine her.

In Andrée’s wake came Katharina Schmalz, unflatteringly described by the press as ‘the grim, dwarfish servant in Slater’s home’. In fact, no one did better than Katharina in filling in the details of what she succeeded in making sound like an innocuous household. She stuck, throughout a half-hour’s fierce-ish cross-examination by Ure, to her simple story, and lost not a feather.

What was the sum of the day’s proceedings? Shipping clerks and railway personnel had spoken of the journey of Slater and his lady to Liverpool and New York; all agreed that his had been an ordinary travelling transaction with nothing about the accused’s demeanour to suggest that he was a fugitive from justice. And Slater’s counsel had shown that his departure from Glasgow had been an open one. McClure had also produced witnesses who could testify to his client’s departure from Johnston’s Billiard Rooms for home on the night of the murder, so that, ostensibly, he had been accompanied to his very door in St George’s Road, and beyond it, by the evidence of his mistress and maid.

The fourth and final day of the trial – Thursday, 6 May 1909.

As the first witness, Samuel Reid, was summoned, sunshine, broad and generous, flooded in through the two large windows over the bench, picking out in bold relief the imperial coat of arms surmounting the canopy above the judge and setting shafts of prismatic spotlights, filtered from the edges of the yellow parchment blinds, in a migrainous, dancing dazzle about the faces of some of the prime actors in the potential tragedy. Reid, a middle-aged man, speaking with a foreign accent, was, like Slater, a Jew, and put on a cap to take the oath in orthodox fashion. A bookmaker, it had been his custom, when resident in Glasgow, to dine every Sunday with Slater and spend the evening at his home. He had come over from Belfast, where he now lived, to testify that from six o’clock to half past ten on Sunday night, 20 December 1908, he and his small son, Percy, had been at Oscar’s home with him; clear proof that a mysterious watcher seen by two witnesses – Robert Brown Bryson and Andrew Nairn – hanging about West Princes Street that night was not Slater. The Lord Advocate made no serious challenge to this alibi; he just did his best to tarnish the witness with questions about his and Slater’s unwholesome gambling habits.

McClure’s last effort on Slater’s behalf was to put up two medical witnesses – Drs Robertson and Veitch. Neither considered the hammer belonging to Slater to have caused the decedent’s injuries. Their evidence amounted to no more and no less than that of the doctors for the Crown, travelling the same latitudes and longitudes of speculation, and signally failing to reach any terminus of certainty.

And that, said Mr McClure, closed his case.

Time for Mr Ure, newly-minted Lord Advocate, to address the jury.

Starting off rather quiet-voiced, as he warmed to his demolition work he raised his tones, and, becoming impassioned, would strike the rail of the dock with his left hand every now and again, to emphasise the sincerity of whatever point he was seeking to hammer home; in his right hand, his handkerchief, clutched like a snowball. He told the jury that up to the previous afternoon he would have thought it a serious difficulty to conceive of the existence of a human being capable of doing such a dastardly deed as the most vicious slaying of Miss Gilchrist. But, having heard from the lips of one [Hugh Cameron] who knew the prisoner better than anyone else that he had followed a life descending to the ultimate depths of human degradation, with a withering scorn in his tone and expression, he added:

For by the universal judgment of mankind, the man who lives upon the proceeds of prostitution has sunk to the lowest depths, and all moral sense in him has been destroyed and has ceased to exist, that difficulty has been removed. I say without hesitation that the man in the dock is capable of having committed this dastardly outrage.

The Lord Advocate’s behaviour was the dastardly outrage. McClure should have been up on his hind legs instanter. Lord Guthrie ought to have silenced Ure. Continuing uninterrupted, Ure said that the motive for the crime was plain as daylight. Robbery. ‘We shall see in the sequel how it was that the prisoner came to know that she [Miss Gilchrist] was possessed of these jewels.’

There was no sequel … because there was no evidence that Slater ever knew of Miss Gilchrist’s valuable hoard.

Unworried by such trivia, preoccupied with his need for victory in his ‘maiden’ big trial, Ure went on building, with infinite skill and infinite ruthless transgression of the accepted boundaries of legal custom and fairness, his case against Oscar Slater.

The accused, said Ure, had written to his bosom friend, Cameron, that he could prove with five people where he was when the murder was committed. The Lord Advocate proceeded then to examine the evidence of the proprietor of the Renfield Street Billiard Rooms, Peter Johnston, and his billiard marker, Adam Gibb, as to Slater’s presence circa 6.00 to 6.30pm on 21 December. ‘Neither of them would say the prisoner was there.’ Nor, in Ure’s submission, could Rattmann or Aumann provide acceptable evidence that Slater was in the Renfield Street Billiard Rooms at or near the time of the murder. ‘Well, then,’ he summed up, well satisfied, ‘Out of the five people … that is the best that can be done. The prisoner is hopelessly unable to produce a single witness who saw that he was anywhere else than at the scene of the murder that night.’

This was a very cavalier piece of forensic chicanery, a completely unjustified, contemptuous dismissal by exclusion of the evidence of Andrée Antoine and Katharina Schmalz that Oscar was at home having his dinner at the material time.

Ure went on:

It is said that a fortnight or three weeks, or a month before, he [Slater] spoke of going to America. I dare say he did; I am certain he did. There is no doubt whatever he had made up his mind, as soon as the deed was accomplished that he would not stay in this country one moment longer than was absolutely necessary. I say that this flight was precipitated, and the moment fixed by the publication of his description in the newspapers at two o’clock on the afternoon of 25th December.

Shortly afterwards, the Lord Advocate made the very serious blunder of stating that Slater’s name and description had at that time appeared in the Glasgow newspapers. In fact, his name was not published until 2 January 1909, when it appeared in the Glasgow Herald. Again, McClure should have challenged this statement. Not a word! Slater was not being well served by his counsel.

Ure told the jury that Slater had booked a cabin on the Lusitania in the names of Otto and Anna Sando – ‘For some reason or another which has not been explained, which cannot be explained consistently with innocence.’ This was very unfair. As McClure should have interjected, Miss Antoine had explained that she and Oscar had used false names to throw the legal Mrs Slater off their traces.

Lord Advocate Ure’s speech was widely hailed as a marvel. He had spoken for an hour and fifty minutes with never a single written note. Discussing this prodigious performance with William Roughead, Sir Edward Marshall Hall drily remarked: ‘That may account for its manifold inaccuracies.’

Mr McClure, in his speech for the defence, very properly reminded the jury that it was entirely upon the evidence of Hugh Cameron – ‘unless what the girl Antoine said herself, that in the prisoner’s absence she received gentlemen,’ be accepted – that information concerning whatever depth to which Slater may have sunk depended. But the strongest that McClure seemed able to manage in the way of protest was that that was a subject that ‘We are not to go into. It should not have been here referred to, and is not in the case.’ Having cited the celebrated and cautionary case of mistaken identity, that of Adolf Beck (1896), and having to the best of his ability put the moral frighteners on the fifteen, good and truly, Mr McClure sat resoundingly down.

It was now 3.35pm Everything stopped for tea.

Then … Lord Guthrie’s summing-up.

It was a disaster. Unbelievably, his Lordship delivered himself of the following far-from-judicial comment regarding the prisoner: ‘He has maintained himself by the ruin of men and on the ruin of women, living for years past in a way that many blackguards would scorn to live.’ After which, leaning over at a backwards tilt in a supreme, and supremely distasteful, effort to be fair, to be judicial, Lord Guthrie observed: ‘It is nothing remarkable to find a man of that kind taking a wrong name, telling a lie about his destination, going by different names, murder or no murder.’

At this juncture the learned judge made a further unbelievable blunder. Against all the doctrines of criminal law, he told the jury:

The Lord Advocate founds on the prisoner’s admittedly abandoned character as a point in support of the Crown. He is entitled to do so because a man of that kind has not the presumption of innocence in his favour, which is not only the form in the case of every man, but is a reality in the case of the ordinary man. Not only is every man presumed to be innocent, but the ordinary man has a strong presumption in his favour.

His Lordship’s summing-up brought about a change in Slater’s hitherto optimistic attitude. Now, at last, he was beginning to realise how thin-spun was the web of his fate. Indeed, no one who had listened to Lord Guthrie’s charge to the jury could doubt what, however couched and swaddled in the robes of judicial impartiality, the judge’s own opinion was.

The jurors filed out. Lord Guthrie left the bench. Counsel and agents melted from the scene. According to legal custom, the prisoner remained seated in the dock between his ramrod guardians, their batons drawn. Around him a torrent of talk surged to fill the panelled court-room’s upturned wooden bowl of silence.

At four minutes past six, high above the clamour, the ringing of the jury bell was heard. The Babel was abruptly burked as the straggly crocodile of jurors shuffled back in. Mr John Waldie, warehouseman, foreman, answered the question. ‘The jury, by a majority, find the prisoner guilty as libelled.’

An awed hush had fallen on the court, disturbed only by the incongruous flapping of the yellow blinds as the evening breeze swept in through the slits of opened windows. Leaning over the front of the dock, Oscar Slater gave a convulsive sob, and, stretching out his arms to judge and jury in the age-old Jewish gesture of supplication, in a harsh, guttural tone gasped out: ‘My Lord, my father and mother are poor old people. I came on my own account to this country. I came over to defend my right. I know nothing about the affair. You are convicting an innocent man.’

Lord Guthrie assumed the black cap and pronounced sentence of death.

The trap-door opened.

The last fragment of the well-cut, well shoulder-padded jacket of Oscar’s ‘court suit’ whisked away, down into the engulfing darkness of the stair.

The trap-door closed with a bang over Slater, who, with his goods and chattels forfeit to the Crown, was, in the eyes of the law, already a dead man.

From a waiting room nearby came the sound of Andrée Antoine, sobbing.

1 Rue des Trois-Frères, Montmartre.