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FANTÔMAS

PIERRE SOUVESTRE
AND
MARCEL ALLAIN

_Translated from the original French by_
CRANSTOUN METCALFE

_Introduction to the Dover Edition by_
ROBIN WALZ

DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.
Mineola, New York

_Bibliographical Note_

This Dover edition, first published in 2006, is an unabridged
republication of the work first published by Brentano's Publishers Inc.,
New York, in 1915.

_International Standard Book Number: 0-486-44971-8_

Manufactured in the United States of America
Dover Publications, Inc., 31 East 2nd Street, Mineola, N.Y. 11501

CONTENTS

Introduction to the Dover Edition                     v

CHAPTER                                            PAGE

     I. The Genius of Crime                           1

    II. A Tragic Dawn                                12

   III. The Hunt for the Man                         26

    IV. "No! I am not Mad!"                          34

     V. "Arrest Me!"                                 45

    VI. "Fantômas, it is Death!"                     52

   VII. The Criminal Investigation Department        68

  VIII. A Dreadful Confession                        82

    IX. All for Honour                               92

     X. Princess Sonia's Bath                       104

    XI. Magistrate and Detective                    117

   XII. A Knock-out Blow                            125

  XIII. Thérèse's Future                            133

   XIV. Mademoiselle Jeanne                         140

    XV. The Mad Woman's Plot                        146

   XVI. Among the Market Porters                    156

  XVII. At the Saint-Anthony's Pig                  163

 XVIII. A Prisoner and a Witness                    174

   XIX. Jérôme Fandor                               184

    XX. A Cup of Tea                                190

   XXI. Lord Beltham's Murderer                     196

  XXII. The Scrap of Paper                          205

 XXIII. The Wreck of the "Lancaster"                210

  XXIV. Under Lock and Key                          216

   XXV. An Unexpected Accomplice                    223

  XXVI. A Mysterious Crime                          228

 XXVII. Three Surprising Incidents                  237

XXVIII. The Court of Assize                         247

  XXIX. Verdict and Sentence                        255

   XXX. An Assignation                              265

  XXXI. Fell Treachery                              276

 XXXII. On the Scaffold                             288

I. THE GENIUS OF CRIME

"Fantômas."

"What did you say?"

"I said: Fantômas."

"And what does that mean?"

"Nothing.... Everything!"

"But what is it?"

"Nobody.... And yet, yes, it is somebody!"

"And what does the somebody do?"

"Spreads terror!"

Dinner was just over, and the company were moving into the drawing-room.

Hurrying to the fireplace, the Marquise de Langrune took a large log
from a basket and flung it on to the glowing embers on the hearth; the
log crackled and shed a brilliant light over the whole room; the guests
of the Marquise instinctively drew near to the fire.

During the ten consecutive months she spent every year at her château of
Beaulieu, on the outskirts of Corrèze, that picturesque district bounded
by the Dordogne, it had been the immemorial custom of the Marquise de
Langrune to entertain a few of her personal friends in the neighbourhood
to dinner every Wednesday, thereby obtaining a little pleasant relief
from her loneliness and keeping up some contact with the world.

On this particular winter evening the good lady's guests included
several habitués: President Bonnet, a retired magistrate who had
withdrawn to his small property at Saint-Jaury, in the suburbs of
Brives, and the Abbé Sicot, who was the parish priest. A more occasional
friend was also there, the Baronne de Vibray, a young and wealthy widow,
a typical woman of the world who spent the greater part of her life
either in motoring, or in the most exclusive drawing-rooms of Paris, or
at the most fashionable watering-places. But when the Baronne de Vibray
put herself out to grass, as she racily phrased it, and spent a few
weeks at Querelles, her estate close to the château of Beaulieu, nothing
pleased her better than to take her place again in the delightful
company of the Marquise de Langrune and her friends.

Finally, youth was represented by Charles Rambert, who had arrived at
the château a couple of days before, a charming lad of about eighteen
who was treated with warm affection by the Marquise and by Thérèse
Auvernois, the granddaughter of the Marquise, with whom since her
parents' death she had lived as a daughter.

The odd and even mysterious words spoken by President Bonnet as they
were leaving the table, and the personality of this Fantômas about which
he had said nothing definite in spite of all the questions put to him,
had excited the curiosity of the company, and while Thérèse Auvernois
was gracefully dispensing the coffee to her grandmother's guests the
questions were renewed with greater insistence. Crowding round the fire,
for the evening was very cold, Mme. de Langrune's friends showered fresh
questions upon the old magistrate, who secretly enjoyed the interest he
had inspired. He cast a solemn eye upon the circle of his audience and
prolonged his silence, the more to capture their attention. At length he
began to speak.

"Statistics tell us, ladies, that of all the deaths that are registered
every day quite a third are due to crime. You are no doubt aware that
the police discover about half of the crimes that are committed, and
that barely half meet with the penalty of justice. This explains how it
is that so many mysteries are never cleared up, and why there are so
many mistakes and inconsistencies in judicial investigations."

"What is the conclusion you wish to draw?" the Marquise de Langrune
enquired with interest.

"This," the magistrate proceeded: "although many crimes pass unsuspected
it is none the less obvious that they have been committed; now while
some of them are due to ordinary criminals, others are the work of
enigmatical beings who are difficult to trace and too clever or
intelligent to let themselves be caught. History is full of stories of
such mysterious characters, the Iron Mask, for instance, and Cagliostro.
In every age there have been bands of dangerous creatures, led by such
men as Cartouche and Vidocq and Rocambole. Now why should we suppose
that in our time no one exists who emulates the deeds of those mighty
criminals?"

The Abbé Sicot raised a gentle voice from the depths of a comfortable
arm-chair wherein he was peacefully digesting his dinner.

"The police do their work better in our time than ever they did before."

"That is perfectly true," the president admitted, "but their work is
also more difficult than ever it was before. Criminals who operate in
the grand manner have all sorts of things at their disposal nowadays.
Science has done much for modern progress, but unfortunately it can be
of invaluable assistance to criminals at times; the hosts of evil have
the telegraph and the motor-car at their disposal just as authority has,
and some day they will make use of the aeroplane."

Young Charles Rambert had been listening to the president's dissertation
with the utmost interest and now broke in, with a voice that quivered
slightly.

"You were talking about Fantômas just now, sir----"

The president cast a cryptic look at the lad and did not reply directly
to him.

"That is what I am coming to, for, of course, you have understood me,
ladies. In these days we have been distressed by a steady access of
criminality, and among the assets we shall henceforth have to count a
mysterious and most dangerous creature, to whom the baffled authorities
and public rumour generally have for some time now given the name of
Fantômas. It is impossible to say exactly or to know precisely who
Fantômas is. He often assumes the form and personality of some definite
and even well-known individual; sometimes he assumes the forms of two
human beings at one and the same time. Sometimes he works alone,
sometimes with accomplices; sometimes he can be identified as such and
such a person, but no one has ever yet arrived at knowing Fantômas
himself. That he is a living person is certain and undeniable, yet he is
impossible to catch or to identify. He is nowhere and everywhere at
once, his shadow hovers above the strangest mysteries, and his traces
are found near the most inexplicable crimes, and yet----"

"You are frightening us!" exclaimed the Baronne de Vibray with a little
forced laugh that did not ring true, and the Marquise de Langrune, who
for the past few minutes had been uneasy at the idea of the children
listening to the conversation, cast about in her mind for an occupation
more suited to their age. The interruption gave her an opportunity, and
she turned to Charles Rambert and Thérèse.

"You must find it very dull here with all of us grown-up people, dears,
so run away now. Thérèse," she added with a smile to her granddaughter
who had risen obediently, "there is a splendid new puzzle in the
library; you ought to try it with Charles."

The young fellow realised that he must comply with the desire of the
Marquise, although the conversation interested him intensely; but he was
too well bred to betray his thoughts, and the next moment he was in the
adjoining room, sitting opposite the girl, and deep in the intricacies
of the latest fashionable game.

The Baronne de Vibray brought the conversation back to the subject of
Fantômas.

"What connection is there, President, between this uncanny creature and
the disappearance of Lord Beltham, of which we were talking at dinner?"

"I should certainly have agreed with you and thought there was none,"
the old magistrate replied, "if Lord Beltham's disappearance had been
unattended by any mysterious circumstance. But there is one point that
deserves your attention: the newspaper from which I read an extract
just now, _La Capitale_, draws attention to it and regards it as being
important. It is said that when Lady Beltham began to be uneasy about
her husband's absence, on the morning of the day following his
disappearance, she remembered noticing just as he was going out that he
was reading a particular letter, the peculiar, square shape of which
surprised her. She had also noticed that the handwriting of the letter
was very heavy and black. Now, she found the letter in question upon her
husband's desk, but the whole of the writing had disappeared, and it was
only the most minute examination that resulted in the discovery of a few
almost imperceptible stains which proved that it really was the
identical document that had been in her husband's hands. Lady Beltham
would not have thought very much about it, if it had not occurred to the
editor of _La Capitale_ to interview detective Juve about it, the famous
Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department, you know, who has
brought so many notorious criminals to justice. Now M. Juve manifested
the greatest excitement over the discovery and the nature of this
document; and he did not attempt to hide from his interviewer his belief
that the strange nature of this unusual epistle was proof of the
intervention of Fantômas. You very likely know that Juve has made it his
special business to follow up Fantômas; he has sworn that he will take
him, and he is after him body and soul. Let us hope he will succeed! But
it is no good pretending that Juve's job is not as difficult a one as
can be imagined.

"However, it is a fair inference that when Juve spoke as he did to the
representative of _La Capitale_, he did not think he was going too far
when he declared that a crime lay behind the disappearance of Lord
Beltham, and that perhaps the crime must be laid at Fantômas' door; and
we can only hope that at some not distant date, justice will not only
throw full light upon this mysterious affair, but also rid us for ever
of this terrifying criminal!"

President Bonnet had convinced his audience completely, and his closing
words cast a chill upon them all.

The Marquise de Langrune deemed it time to create a diversion.

"Who are these people, Lord and Lady Beltham?" she enquired.

"Oh, my dear!" the Baronne de Vibray answered, "it is perfectly obvious
that you lead the life of a hermit in this remote country home of yours,
and that echoes from the world of Paris do not reach you often! Lord and
Lady Beltham are among the best known and most popular people in
society. He was formerly attached to the English Embassy, but left Paris
to fight in the Transvaal, and his wife went with him and showed
magnificent courage and compassion in charge of the ambulance and
hospital work. They then went back to London, and a couple of years ago
they settled once more in Paris. They lived, and still live, in the
boulevard Inkermann at Neuilly-sur-Seine, in a delightful house where
they entertain a great deal. I have often been one of Lady Beltham's
guests; she is a most fascinating woman, distinguished, tall, fair, and
endowed with the charm that is peculiar to the women of the North. I am
very distressed at the trouble that is hanging over her."

"Well," said the Marquise de Langrune conclusively, "I mean to believe
that the gloomy prognostications of our friend the president will not be
justified by the event."

"Amen!" murmured the Abbé mechanically, roused from his gentle slumber
by the closing words of the Marquise.

The clock chimed ten, and her duties as hostess did not make the
Marquise forgetful of her duties as grandmother.

"Thérèse," she called, "it is your bed-time. It is very late, darling."

The child obediently left her game, said good night to the Baronne de
Vibray and President Bonnet, and last of all to the old priest, who gave
her a paternal embrace.

"Shall I see you at the seven o'clock mass, Thérèse?" he asked.

The child turned to the Marquise.

"Will you let me accompany Charles to the station to-morrow morning? I
will go to the eight o'clock mass on my way back."

The Marquise looked at Charles Rambert.

"Your father really is coming by the train that reaches Verrières at
6.55?" and when he assented she hesitated a moment before replying to
Thérèse. "I think, dear, it would be better to let our young friend go
alone to meet his father."

But Charles Rambert put in his plea.

"Oh, I am sure my father would be delighted to see Thérèse with me when
he gets out of the train."

"Very well, then," the kind old lady said; "arrange it as you please.
But, Thérèse, before you go upstairs, tell our good steward, Dollon, to
give orders for the carriage to be ready by six o'clock. It is a long
way to the station."

Thérèse promised, and the two young people left the drawing-room.

"A pretty couple," remarked the Baronne de Vibray, adding with a
characteristic touch of malice, "you mean to make a match between them
some day, Marquise?"

The old lady threw up her hands protesting.

"What an idea! Why, Thérèse is not fifteen yet."

"Who is this Charles Rambert?" the Abbé asked. "I just caught sight of
him the day before yesterday with Dollon, and I puzzled my brains
wondering who he could be."

"I am not surprised," the Marquise laughed, "not surprised that you did
not succeed in finding out, for you do not know him. But you may perhaps
have heard me mention a M. Etienne Rambert, an old friend of mine, with
whom I had many a dance in the long ago. I had lost sight of him
completely until about two years ago, when I met him at a charity
function in Paris. The poor man has had a rather chequered life; twenty
years ago he married a woman who was perfectly charming, but who is, I
believe, very ill with a distressing malady: I am not even sure that she
is not insane. Quite lately Etienne Rambert has been compelled to send
her to an asylum."

"That does not tell us how his son comes to be your guest," President
Bonnet urged.

"It is very simple: Etienne Rambert is an energetic man who is always
moving about. Although he is quite sixty he still occupies himself with
some rubber plantations he possesses in Colombia, and he often goes to
America: he thinks no more of the voyage than we do of a trip to Paris.
Well, just recently young Charles Rambert was leaving the _pension_ in
Hamburg where he had been living in order to perfect his German; I knew
from his father's letters that Mme. Rambert was about to be put away,
and that Etienne Rambert was obliged to be absent, so I offered to
receive Charles here until his father should return to Paris. Charles
came the day before yesterday, and that is the whole story."

"And M. Etienne Rambert joins him here to-morrow?" said the Abbé.

"That is so----"

The Marquise de Langrune would have given other information about her
young friend had he not come into the room just then. He was an
attractive lad with refined and distinguished features, clear,
intelligent eyes, and graceful figure. The other guests were silent, and
Charles Rambert approached them with the slight awkwardness of youth. He
went up to President Bonnet and plucked up sudden courage.

"And what then, sir?" he asked in a low tone.

"I don't understand, my boy," said the magistrate.

"Oh!" said Charles Rambert, "have you finished talking about Fantômas?
It was so amusing!"

"For my part," the president answered dryly, "I do not find these
stories about criminals 'amusing.'"

But the lad did not detect the shade of reproach in the words.

"But still it is very odd, very extraordinary that such mysterious
characters as Fantômas can exist nowadays. Is it really possible that a
single man can commit such a number of crimes, and that any human being
can escape discovery, as they say Fantômas can, and be able to foil the
cleverest devices of the police? I think it is----"

The president's manner grew steadily more chilly as the boy's curiosity
waxed more enthusiastic, and he interrupted curtly.

"I fail to understand your attitude, young man. You appear to be
hypnotised, fascinated. You speak of Fantômas as if he were something
interesting. It is out of place, to put it mildly," and he turned to the
Abbé Sicot. "There, sir, that is the result of this modern education and
the state of mind produced in the younger generation by the newspaper
press and even by literature. Criminals are given haloes and proclaimed
from the housetops. It is astounding!"

But Charles Rambert was not the least impressed.

"But it is life, sir; it is history, it is the real thing!" he insisted.
"Why, you yourself, in just a few words, have thrown an atmosphere round
this Fantômas which makes him absolutely fascinating! I would give
anything to have known Vidocq and Cartouche and Rocambole, and to have
seen them at close quarters. Those were men!"

President Bonnet contemplated the young man in astonishment; his eyes
flashed lightning at him and he burst out:

"You are mad, boy, absolutely mad! Vidocq--Rocambole! You mix up legend
and history, bracket murderers with detectives, and make no distinction
between right and wrong! You would not hesitate to set the heroes of
crime and the heroes of law and order on one and the same pedestal!"

"You have said the word, sir," Charles Rambert exclaimed: "they all are
heroes. But, better still, Fantômas----"

The lad's outburst was so vehement and spontaneous and sincere, that it
provoked unanimous indignation among his hearers. Even the indulgent
Marquise de Langrune ceased to smile. Charles Rambert perceived that he
had gone too far, and stopped abruptly.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he murmured. "I spoke without thinking; please
forgive me."

He raised his eyes and looked at President Bonnet, blushing to the tips
of his ears and looking so abashed that the magistrate, who was a
kind-hearted man at bottom, tried to reassure him.

"Your imagination is much too lively, young man, much too lively. But
you will grow out of that. Come, come: that's all right; lads of your
age do talk without knowledge."

It was very late now, and a few minutes after this incident the guests
of the Marquise de Langrune took their departure.

Charles Rambert accompanied the Marquise to the door of her own private
rooms, and was about to bid her a respectful good night before going on
to his bedroom, which adjoined hers, when she asked him to follow her.

"Come in and get the book I promised you, Charles. It should be on my
writing-table." She glanced at that piece of furniture as she entered
the room, and went on, "Or in it, perhaps; I may have locked it away."

"I don't want to give you any trouble," he protested, but the Marquise
insisted.

"Put your light down on that table," she said. "Besides, I have got to
open my desk, for I must look at the lottery tickets I gave to Thérèse a
few weeks ago." She pushed back the roll top of her Empire desk and
looked up at the young fellow. "It would be a piece of good luck if my
little Thérèse won the first prize, eh, Charles? A million francs! That
would be worth winning?"

"Rather!" said Charles Rambert with a smile.

The Marquise found the book she was searching for and gave it to the lad
with one hand while with the other she smoothed out several variegated
papers.

"These are my tickets," she said, and then broke off. "How stupid of me!
I have not kept the number of the winning ticket that was advertised in
_La Capitale_."

Charles Rambert immediately offered to go downstairs again to fetch the
newspaper, but the Marquise would not let him.

"It is no good, my dear boy; it is not there now. You know--or rather
you don't know--that the Abbé takes away all the week's newspapers every
Wednesday night in order to read all the political articles." The old
lady turned away from her writing-table, which she left wide open,
conducted the young man to the door, and held out a friendly hand. "It
is to-morrow morning already!" she said. "So now good night, dear
Charles!"

In his own room, with the lights extinguished and the curtains closed,
Charles Rambert lay wide awake, a prey to strange excitement. He turned
and tossed in his bed nervously. In vain did he try to banish from his
mind the words spoken during the evening by President Bonnet. In
imagination Charles Rambert saw all manner of sinister and dramatic
scenes, crimes and murders: hugely interested, intensely curious,
craving for knowledge, he was ever trying to concoct plots and unravel
mysteries. If for an instant he dozed off, the image of Fantômas took
shape in his mind, but never twice the same: sometimes he saw a colossal
figure with bestial face and muscular shoulders; sometimes a wan, thin
creature, with strange and piercing eyes; sometimes a vague form, a
phantom--Fantômas!

Charles Rambert slept, and woke, and dozed again. In the silence of the
night he thought he heard creakings and heavy sounds. Then suddenly he
felt a breath pass over his face--and again nothing! And suddenly again
strange sounds were buzzing in his ears.

Bathed in cold sweat Charles Rambert started and sat upright in bed,
every muscle tense, listening with all his ears. Was he dreaming, or had
he really waked up? He did not know. And still, still he had a
consciousness of Fantômas--of mystery--of Fantômas!

Charles Rambert heard the clock strike four.

II. A TRAGIC DAWN

As his cab turned by the end of the Pont Royal towards the Gare d'Orsay,
M. Etienne Rambert looked at his watch and found, as he had anticipated,
that he had a good quarter of an hour before the train that he intended
to take was due to start. He called a porter, and gave him the heavy
valise and the bundle of rugs that formed the whole of his hand baggage.

"Where is the office for forwarding luggage, my man?" he enquired.

The porter led him through the famous panelled hall of the Gare d'Orsay,
and M. Etienne Rambert satisfied himself that his trunks had been
properly registered for Verrières, the station at which he had to alight
for the château of Beaulieu.

Still attended by the porter, who had conceived a respectful admiration
for him in consequence of the authoritative tone in which he demanded
information from the various railway servants, and who scented a
probable munificent tip, M. Etienne Rambert proceeded to the
booking-office and took a first-class ticket. He spent a few minutes
more at the book-stall where he selected an imposing collection of
illustrated papers, and then, his final preparations completed, he
turned once more to the porter.

"The Luchon train," he said; "where is it?" and as the man only made a
vague gesture and growled something wholly indistinct, he added: "Lead
the way, and I will follow."

It was now just half-past eight, and the station showed all the
animation inseparable from the departure of main-line trains. M. Etienne
Rambert hurried onwards, and reaching the platform from which all the
lines begin, was stayed by the porter who was laden with his baggage.

"You want the express, sir?"

"No, the slow train, my man."

The porter showed some surprise, but made no remark.

"Do you like the front or the back of the train?"

"The back by choice."

"First-class, isn't it?"

"Yes, first-class."

The porter, who had stopped a moment, picked up the heavy valise again.

"Then there isn't any choice. There are only two first-class carriages
on the slow train, and they are both in the middle."

"They are corridor carriages, I suppose?" said Etienne Rambert.

"Yes, sir; there are hardly any others on the main-line trains,
especially first-class."

In the ever-increasing crowd Etienne Rambert had some difficulty in
following the porter. The Gare d'Orsay has little or none of the
attractiveness of the other stations, which cannot fail to have a
certain fascination for any imaginative person, who thinks of the
mystery attaching to all those iron rails reaching out into the distance
of countries unknown to him. It is less noisy than the others also, for
between Austerlitz and Orsay the traction is entirely electric. And
further, there is no clearly defined separation between the main and the
suburban lines.

On the right of the platform was the train which was to take Etienne
Rambert beyond Brives to Verrières, the slow train to Luchon; and on the
left of the same platform was another train for Juvisy and all the small
stations in the suburbs of Paris.

Very few people were making for the train to Luchon; but a large crowd
was pressing into the suburban train.

The porter who was piloting M. Etienne Rambert, set the baggage he was
carrying down on the footboard of a first-class carriage.

"There is no one for the slow train yet, sir; if you like to get in
first you can choose your own compartment."

M. Etienne Rambert acted on the suggestion, but he had hardly set foot
in the corridor before the guard, also scenting a generous tip, came to
offer his services.

"It really is the 8.50 you want, sir?" was his first enquiry. "You are
sure you are not making a mistake?"

"No," Etienne Rambert replied. "Why?"

"A great many first-class passengers do make a mistake," the man
explained, "and confuse the 8.50 with the 8.45 express."

As he spoke the guard took the baggage from the porter who had remained
on the platform, and the porter, after being generously remunerated for
his trouble by M. Rambert, hurried away to look for other travellers.

"The 8.45 is the express, isn't it?" M. Rambert enquired.

"Yes," the guard answered; "it runs right through without stopping at
all the small stations as this train does. It goes in front of this one
and gets to Luchon three hours earlier. There it is on the side there,"
and he pointed through the window in the door on the far side to another
train on the next rails, in which a number of travellers were already
taking their seats. "If you prefer to go by that one, sir," he went on,
"there is still time for you to change; you are entitled to take your
choice since you have a first-class ticket."

But Etienne Rambert, after a moment's consideration, declined the
suggestion.

"No: I would rather go by the slow train. If I take the express I should
have to get out at Brives, and then I should be twelve or thirteen miles
from Saint-Jaury, which is my destination; whereas the slow train stops
at Verrières, where, by the way, I have already telegraphed to say I
shall arrive to-morrow morning."

He walked a little way along the corridor, assuring himself that the
various compartments were still quite empty, and then turned to the
guard.

"Look here, my man," he said, "I am awfully tired, and I mean to get
some sleep to-night; consequently I should like to be alone. Now where
shall I be most quiet and undisturbed?"

The man understood. M. Etienne Rambert's enquiry about the place where
he would be most quiet, was an implicit promise of a handsome tip if
nobody did disturb him.

"If you like to settle yourself here, sir," the man answered, "you can
draw down the blinds at once, and I dare say I shall be able to find
room for any other passengers somewhere else."

"Good," said M. Rambert, moving towards the compartment indicated. "I
will smoke a cigar until the train starts, and immediately afterwards I
will settle down to sleep. By the way, my man, since you seem so
obliging, I wish you would undertake to call me to-morrow morning in
time for me to get out at Verrières. I am desperately sleepy and I am
quite capable of not waking up."

The guard touched his cap.

"You can be perfectly easy, sir, and sleep without the least anxiety. I
won't fail."

"Very well."

When his baggage had been stowed away, and his rugs spread out to make
the seat more comfortable still, M. Etienne Rambert repeated his appeal,
for he was an old traveller and knew that it does not do to rely too
much upon the promises of chance attendants.

"I can rely upon you, can't I? I may sleep as sound as I like, and you
will wake me at Verrières?" And the more to assure himself that the
guard would execute his orders he slipped a franc into his hand.

When he was left alone, M. Rambert continued his preparations for the
night. He carefully drew down the blinds over the door and over the
windows of the compartment that gave on to the corridor, and also
lowered the shade over the electric light, and then, in order to enjoy
the last puffs at his cigar in peace, he opened the window over the
other door and leant his elbows on it, watching the final preparations
being made by the travellers by the express on the other line.

The departure of a train is always a picturesque sight, and M. Rambert
leant forward inquisitively to note how the passengers had installed
themselves in the two compartments which he could see from his coign of
vantage.

There were not many people in the train. As a matter of fact the Brives
and Luchon line is not much used at this time of year. If the number of
passengers in the express were any criterion Etienne Rambert might
reasonably expect that he would be the only one in the slow train. But
there was not much time for observations and reflections of this kind.
On the platform for the express, which he got a glimpse of through the
compartments, people were hurrying up their farewells. The passengers
had got into their carriages, and the friends who had come to see them
off were standing alone upon the platform. There was the sound of safety
locks being fastened by porters, and the noise of trollies being wheeled
along bearing articles for sale.

"Pillows! Rugs! Sweets! Papers!"

Then came the whistle of the guard, the shriller scream from the
electric engine, and then, slowly at first but steadily, more rapidly as
the engine got up speed, the express moved along the platform and
plunged into the tunnel on the way to Austerlitz.

Meanwhile the guard of the slow train was doing wonders. Shamelessly
resolved to assure perfect quiet to "his" passenger, he managed, without
unduly compromising himself but yet without leaving any doubt about it
in any mind, to insinuate discreetly that M. Rambert's carriage was
reserved, so that that gentleman might count upon an entirely
undisturbed night.

A few minutes after the express had gone, the slow train drew out in its
turn, and disappeared into the darkness of the underground tunnel.

At the château of Beaulieu young Charles Rambert was just finishing
dressing when a gentle tap sounded on the door of his room.

"It is a quarter to five, Charles. Get up at once!"

"I am awake already, Thérèse," Charles Rambert answered with some pride.
"I shall be ready in two minutes."

"What? up already?" the girl exclaimed from the other side of the door.
"Marvellous! I congratulate you. I'm ready too; I will wait for you in
the dining-room. Come down as soon as you are dressed."

"All right!" the young man answered.

He wasted no time over his toilette, the more so because it was none too
warm in his room, for at this early hour it was still quite dark; and
then taking his light in one hand he opened his door carefully so as to
make no noise, tip-toed along the landing, and went down the staircase
to join Thérèse in the dining-room. The girl was an accomplished
housekeeper already, and while waiting for the young fellow she had got
a scratch meal together.

"Let us have breakfast quickly," she suggested; "it isn't snowing this
morning, and if you like we might walk to the station. We have plenty of
time, and it will do us good to have a walk."

"It will warm us up anyhow," Charles Rambert replied; he was only
half-awake, but he sat beside Thérèse, and did justice to the
preparations she had made.

"Do you know that it is very wonderful of you to get up so punctually?"
Mme. de Langrune's granddaughter remarked. "How did you manage it? Last
night you were afraid you would sleep on as usual."

"It was not much trouble for me to wake up," Charles Rambert answered.
"I hardly closed an eye all night."

"But I promised to come and knock at your door myself, so you might have
slept without any anxiety."

"That's so, but to tell you the truth, Thérèse, I was regularly upset
and excited by the thought of papa arriving this morning."

They had both finished breakfast, and Thérèse got up.

"Shall we start?" she asked.

"Yes."

Thérèse opened the hall door, and the two young people went down the
flight of steps leading to the garden. The girl had thrown a big cloak
over her shoulders, and she inhaled the pure morning air with keen
delight.

"I love going out in the early morning," she declared.

"Well, I don't like it at all," Charles Rambert confessed with
characteristic candour. "Good Lord, how cold it is! And it is still
pitch dark!"

"Surely you are not going to be frightened?" said Thérèse teasingly.

Charles Rambert made an irritable movement of vexation and surprise.

"Frightened? What do you take me for, Thérèse? If I don't like going out
in the early morning it's really only because it is cold."

She laughed at him while they were crossing the lawn towards the
out-buildings, through which she meant to get out on to the high road.
As they passed the stables they came across a groom who was leisurely
getting an old brougham out of the coach-house.

"Don't hurry, Jean," Thérèse called out as she greeted him. "We are
going to walk to the station, and the only important thing is that you
should be there to bring us back."

The man touched his cap and the two young people passed through the park
gate and found themselves upon the high road.

It was still very dark, with just a wan reflection in the distance of
the sky vaguely outlining some cloud-shapes to the eastward to give some
promise of the day. There was no sound to break the silence of the
fields, and as they walked briskly along Charles and Thérèse could hear
their footsteps ringing on the hard surface of the frozen ground.

"It must please you awfully to be going to meet your father," said Mme.
de Langrune's granddaughter half questioningly. "It is a long time since
you have seen him, isn't it?"

"Three years," Charles Rambert answered, "and then just for a few
minutes. He is coming home from America now, and before that he
travelled in Spain for a long time."

"He was travelling the whole time you were a child, wasn't he?"

"Yes, always: either in Colombia, looking after his rubber plantations
there, or in Spain, where he has a good deal of property too. When he
was in Paris he used to come to the school and ask for me, and I saw him
in the parlour--for a quarter of an hour."

"And your mother?"

"Oh, mamma was different. You know, Thérèse, I spent all the childhood
that I can remember at the school. I liked the masters and had good
chums, and was very happy there, and if the truth must be told I looked
forward with anything but pleasure to the holidays, when I had to go to
my parents' house. I always felt a stranger with them; my real home was
the school-room, where I had my desk and all my own interests. And then,
you know, when one is little one doesn't understand things much; I
didn't feel having hardly any family, very much."

"But you loved your mother very much?"

Thérèse asked the question quite anxiously, and it was patent that she
would have thought it dreadful if her companion had not had a real
affection for his mother.

"Oh, yes, I loved her," Charles Rambert answered; "but I hardly knew her
either." And as Thérèse showed her surprise he went on, telling her
something of the secret of his lonely childhood. "You see, Thérèse, now
that I am a man I guess lots of things that I could not have had even a
suspicion of then. My father and mother did not get on well together.
They were what you call an ill-assorted couple. They were both very
good, but their characters did not harmonise. When I was little I always
saw mamma silent and sad, and papa active and on the go, and bright and
talking at the top of his voice. I half believe he frightened mamma! And
then my father was constantly away, whereas mamma hardly ever went out.
When a servant took me to the house on Thursdays, I was taken up to say
good morning to her, and I invariably found her lying on a sofa in her
room, with the blinds down and almost dark. She just touched me with her
lips and asked me one or two questions, and then I was taken away again
because I tired her."

"Was she ill, then?"

"Mamma always has been ill. I suppose you know, Thérèse, that three
months ago--stay, it was just when I had taken my degree and went to
Germany--she was sent to an asylum? I believe my father had wanted her
to agree to undergo careful treatment of the kind long before, but she
would not."

Thérèse was silent for a few minutes.

"You have not been very happy," she said presently.

"Oh, it was only after I grew up that I felt unhappy. When I was a
little chap I never thought of how sad it is to have no real father or
mother. The last four or five years it has hurt me, but when he came to
see me once at school, papa told me he would take me with him as soon as
I had taken my degree and grown up. Last October, after my examination,
he wrote and told me to be patient a little longer, and that he was
hurrying on with the winding up of his business and coming back to
France. That gave me a hope which has brightened these last few months,
and will also make you understand why I am so pleased this morning at my
fathers coming. It seems to me that a new life is going to begin."

Day was breaking now: a dirty December day, with the light filtering
through heavy grey clouds that drifted along the ground, hid the
horizon, clung to the low hills, and then suddenly dispersed in long
wisps driven by a keen breeze, that got up in gusts, and drove clouds of
dust along the hard frozen ground.

"I have not been very happy either," said Thérèse, "for I lost my father
when I was tiny: I don't even remember him; and mamma must be dead as
well."

The ambiguous turning of the child's phrase caught Charles Rambert's
interested attention.

"What does that mean, Thérèse? Don't you know if your mother is dead?"

"Yes, oh yes; grandmamma says so. But whenever I ask for particulars
grandmamma always changes the subject. I will echo what you said just
now: when you are little you don't know anything and are not surprised
at anything. For a long time I took no notice of her sudden reticence,
but now I sometimes wonder if something is not being kept back from
me--whether it is really true that mamma is no more in this world."

Talking like this Thérèse and Charles had walked at a good pace, and now
they came to the few houses built around Verrières station. One by one,
bedroom windows and doors were being opened; peasants were making their
way to the sheds to lead their cattle to the pastures.

"We are very early," Thérèse remarked, pointing to the station clock in
the distance. "Your father's train is due at 6.55, and it is only 6.40
now; we still have a quarter of an hour to wait, and more, if the train
is not punctual!"

They went into the little station and Charles Rambert, thankful for some
shelter from the cold, stamped his feet, making a sudden uproar in the
empty waiting-room. A porter appeared.

"Who the deuce is kicking up all this row?" he began angrily, and then
seeing Thérèse, broke off short. "Ah, Mademoiselle Thérèse," he said
with the familiar yet perfectly respectful cordiality that marks country
folk, "up already? Have you come to meet somebody, or are you going
away?"

As he spoke, the porter turned a curious eye upon Charles Rambert, whose
arrival had caused quite a sensation two days before in this little
spot, where with but few exceptions none but people belonging to the
neighbourhood ever came by train.

"No, I am not going away," Thérèse replied. "I have accompanied M.
Rambert, who has come to meet his father."

"Ah-ha, to meet your papa, sir: is he coming from far?"

"From Paris," Charles Rambert answered. "Is the train signalled yet?"

The man drew out a watch like a turnip, and looked at the time.

"It won't be here for quite another twenty minutes. The work on the
tunnel makes it necessary to be careful, and it's always late now. But
you will hear when the bell rings: that will be when the train is coming
over the level-crossing; it will run into the station three minutes
after that. Well, Mademoiselle, I must get on with my work," and the man
left them.

Thérèse turned to Charles Rambert.

"Shall we go on to the platform? Then we shall see the train come in."

So they left the waiting-room and began to walk up and down the whole
length of the platform. Thérèse watched the jerky movements of the hands
of the clock, and smiled at her companion.

"Five minutes more, and your father will be here! Four minutes more! Ah!
There it is!" and she pointed to a slope in the distance where a slight
trail of smoke rose white against the blue of the sky, now clear of
cloud. "Can't you see it? That is the steam from the engine coming out
of the tunnel."

Ere she finished speaking the quivering whir of the bell echoed through
the empty station.

"Ah!" said Charles Rambert: "at last!"

The two porters who, with the stationmaster, constituted the entire
railway staff at Verrières, came bustling along the platform, and while
the bell continued its monotonous whirring ring, pulled forward trucks
in readiness for any possible luggage. Puffing portentously, the engine
slackened speed, and the heavy train slowed down and finally stopped,
bringing a noisy atmosphere of life into the station of Verrières that
but a moment ago was so still.

The first-class carriages had stopped immediately in front of Charles
and Thérèse, and on the footboard Etienne Rambert stood, a tall, elderly
man of distinguished appearance, proud bearing and energetic attitude,
with extraordinarily keen eyes and an unusually high and intelligent
forehead. Seeing Thérèse and Charles he seized his baggage and in a
twinkling had sprung on to the platform. He dropped his valise, tossed
his bundle of rugs on to a seat, and gripped Charles by the two
shoulders.

"My boy!" he exclaimed; "my dear boy!"

Although he had hitherto shown so little affection for his child, it was
obvious that the man was making a great effort to restrain his emotion,
and was really moved when he now saw him again as a grown young man.

Nor, on his part, did Charles Rambert remain unmoved. As if the sudden
grip of this almost stranger, who yet was his father, had awakened a
world of memories within him, he turned very pale and his voice faltered
as he replied:

"Papa! Dear papa! I am so glad to see you!"

Thérèse had drawn tactfully aside. M. Rambert still held his son by the
shoulders and stepped back a pace, the better to consider him.

"Why, you are a man! How you have altered, my boy! You are just what I
hoped you would be: tall and strong! Ah, you are my son all right! And
you are quite well, hey? Yet you look tired."

"I did not sleep well," Charles explained with a smile. "I was afraid I
should not wake up."

Turning his head, M. Rambert saw Thérèse and held out his hand.

"How do you do, my little Thérèse?" he exclaimed. "You have altered too
since I saw you last. I left a little chit of a child, and now I behold
a grown-up young lady. Well! I must be off at once to pay my respects to
my dear old friend, your grandmother. All well at the château, eh?"

Thérèse shook hands warmly with M. Rambert and thanked him prettily.

"Grandmamma is very well; she told me to tell you to excuse her if she
did not come to meet you, but her doctor says she must not get up very
early."

"Of course your grandmamma is excused, my dear. Besides, I have to thank
her for her kindness to Charles, and for the hospitality she is going to
extend to me for a few days."

Meanwhile the train had gone on again, and now a porter came up to M.
Rambert.

"Will you take your luggage with you, sir?"

Recalled to material things, Etienne Rambert contemplated his trunk
which the porters had taken out of the luggage van.

"Good Lord!" he began, but Thérèse interrupted him.

"Grandmamma said she would send for your heavy luggage during the
morning, and that you could take your valise and any small parcels with
us in the brougham."

"What's that? Your grandmamma has taken the trouble to send her
carriage?"

"It's a long way to Beaulieu, you know," Thérèse replied. "Ask Charles
if it isn't. We came on foot and the walk would be too tiring for you
after a whole night in the train."

The three had reached the station yard, and Thérèse stopped in surprise.

"Why, how's that?" she exclaimed; "the carriage is not here. And yet
Jean was beginning to get it ready when we left the château."

M. Etienne Rambert was resting one hand on his son's shoulder, and
contemplating him with an affectionate, all-embracing survey every now
and then. He smiled at Thérèse.

"He may have been delayed, dear. I tell you what we will do. Since your
grandmamma is going to send for my luggage there is no need for me to
take my valise; we can leave everything in the cloak-room and start for
the château on foot; if my memory serves me right--and it is a very good
memory--there is only one road, so we shall meet Jean and can get into
the carriage on the way."

A few minutes later all three set out on the road to Beaulieu. M.
Rambert walked between the two young people; he had gallantly offered
his arm to Thérèse, who was not a little proud of the attention, which
proved to her mind that she was now regarded as a grown-up young lady.
On the other side of his father Charles made answer to the incessant
questions put to him.

M. Etienne Rambert enjoyed the walk in the quiet morning through the
peaceful country-side. With a tender half-melancholy he recognised every
turn in the road, every bit of scenery.

"Just fancy my coming back here at sixty years of age, with a great son
of eighteen!" he said with a laugh. "And I remember as if it were
yesterday the good times I have had at the château of Beaulieu. Mme. de
Langrune and I will have plenty of memories to talk over. Gad! it must
be quite forty years since I came this way, and yet I remember every bit
of it. Say, Thérèse, isn't it the fact that we shall see the front of
the château directly we have passed this little copse?"

"Quite true," the girl answered with a laugh. "You know the country very
well, sir."

"Yes," said Etienne Rambert; "when one gets to my age, little Thérèse,
one always does remember the happy days of one's youth; one remembers
recent events much less distinctly. Most likely that means, my dear,
that the human heart declines to grow old and refuses to preserve any
but pictures of childhood."

For a few minutes M. Rambert remained silent, as if absorbed in
somewhat melancholy reflections. But he soon recovered himself and shook
off the tender sadness evoked in his mind by memories of the past.

"Why, the park enclosure has been altered," he exclaimed. "Here is a
wall which used not to be here: there was only a hedge."

Thérèse laughed.

"I never knew the hedge," she said. "I have always seen the wall."

"Must we go on to the main gate?" M. Rambert asked, "or has your
grandmamma had another gate made?"

"We are going in by the out-buildings," the girl answered; "then we
shall hear why Jean did not come to meet us." She opened a little door
half-hidden among the moss and ivy that clothed the wall surrounding the
park, and making M. Rambert and Charles pass in before her, cried: "But
Jean _has_ gone with the brougham, for the horses are not in the stable.
How was it we did not meet him?" Then she laughed. "Poor Jean! He is so
muddle-headed! I would not mind betting he went to meet us at
Saint-Jaury, as he does every morning to bring me home from church."

The little company, Etienne Rambert, Thérèse and Charles, were now
approaching the château. Passing beneath Mme. de Langrune's windows
Thérèse called merrily up to them.

"Here we are, grandmamma!"

There was no reply.

But at the window of an adjoining room appeared the figure of the
steward, Dollon, making a gesture, as if asking for silence.

Thérèse, in advance of her guests, had proceeded but a few yards when
Mme. de Langrune's old servant rushed down the stone flight of steps in
front of the château, towards M. Rambert.

Dollon seemed distraught. Usually so respectful and so deferential in
manner, he now seized M. Rambert by the arm, and imperiously waving
Thérèse and Charles away, drew him aside.

"It is awful, sir," he exclaimed: "horrible: a fearful thing has
happened. We have just found Mme. la Marquise dead--murdered--in her
room!"

III. THE HUNT FOR THE MAN

M. de Presles, the examining magistrate in charge of the Court at
Brives, had just arrived at the château of Beaulieu, having been
notified of the tragedy by the police sergeant stationed at Saint-Jaury.
The magistrate was a young, fashionable, and rather aristocratic man of
the world, whose grievance it was to be tied down to work that was
mechanical rather than intellectual. He was essentially modern in his
ideas, and his chief ambition was to get away as quickly as possible
from the small provincial town to which he had been exiled by the
changes and chances of promotion; he was sick of Brives, and now it
occurred to him that a crime like this present one would give him an
opportunity of displaying his gifts of intuition and deduction, prove
his quality, and so might enable him to get another appointment. After
Dollon had received him at the château, the magistrate had first of all
made enquiry as to who was in the house at the time. From the
information given him he was satisfied that it was unnecessary to
subject either Thérèse or Charles Rambert to immediate examination, both
of the young people being much too upset to be able to reply to serious
questions, and both having been taken away to the house of the Baronne
de Vibray. It was, also, clear that M. Rambert senior, who had only
arrived after the crime, could not furnish any interesting information.

"Tell me exactly how you discovered the crime, M. Dollon," he said as,
pale and trembling, the steward accompanied him along the corridor to
the scene of the murder.

"I went this morning as usual, sir," the steward replied, "to say good
morning to Mme. de Langrune and receive her orders for the day. I
knocked at her door as I always did, but got no answer. I knocked
louder, but still there was no answer. I don't know why I opened the
door instead of going away; perhaps I had some kind of presentiment. Oh,
I shall never forget the shock I had when I saw my poor dear mistress
lying dead at the foot of her bed, steeped in blood, and with such a
horrible gash in her throat that for a moment I thought her head was
severed from the trunk."

The police sergeant corroborated the steward's story.

"The murder certainly was committed with peculiarly horrible violence,
sir," he remarked. "The body shows that the victim was struck with the
utmost fury. The murderer must have gone mad over the corpse from sheer
lust of blood. The wounds are shocking."

"Knife wounds?" M. de Presles asked.

"I don't know," said the sergeant uncertainly. "Your worship can form
your own opinion."

The magistrate followed the steward into the room where Dollon had taken
care that nothing was touched.

In its furniture and general arrangement Mme. de Langrune's room
corresponded with the character of the old lady. It was large, and
quietly furnished with old presses, arm-chairs, chairs and old-fashioned
tables. It was evident that she had had no liking for modern fashions,
but had preferred to have her own room stamped with the rather severe,
yet very comfortable character of former days.

The whole of one side of the room was filled by the Marquise's bed. It
was large, and raised upon a kind of dais covered with a carpet of
subdued tones. At the foot of the bed, on the right, was a large window,
fastened half open despite the keen cold, no doubt for hygienic reasons.
In the middle of the room was a round mahogany table with a few small
articles upon it, a blotting-pad, books and so on. In one corner a large
crucifix was suspended from the wall with a prie-Dieu in front of it,
the velvet of which had been worn white by the old lady's knees.
Finally, a little further away, was a small escritoire, half open now,
with its drawers gaping and papers scattered on the floor.

There were only two ways of ingress into the room: one by the door
through which the magistrate had entered, which opened on to the main
corridor on the first floor, and the other by a door communicating with
the Marquise's dressing-room; this dressing-room was lighted by a large
window, which was shut.

The magistrate was shocked by the spectacle presented by the corpse of
the Marquise. It was lying on its back on the floor, with the arms
extended; the head was towards the bed, the feet towards the window. The
body was almost naked. A gash ran almost right across the throat,
leaving the bones exposed. Torrents of blood had saturated the victim's
clothes, and on the carpet round the body a wide stain was still slowly
spreading wider.

M. de Presles stooped over the dead woman.

"What an appalling wound!" he muttered. "The medical evidence will
explain what weapon it was made with; but no doctor is required to point
out the violence of the blow or the fury of the murderer." He turned to
the old steward who, at sight of his mistress, could hardly restrain his
tears. "Nothing has been moved in the room, eh?"

"Nothing, sir."

The magistrate pointed to the escritoire with its open drawers.

"That has not been touched?"

"No, sir."

"I suppose that is where Mme. de Langrune kept her valuables?"

The steward shook his head.

"The Marquise could not have had any large sum of money in the house: a
few hundred francs perhaps for daily expenses, but certainly no more."

"So you do not think robbery was the motive of the crime?"

The steward shrugged his shoulders.

"The murderer may have thought that Mme. de Langrune had money here,
sir. But anyhow he must have been disturbed, because he did not take
away the rings the Marquise had laid upon the dressing-table before she
got into bed."

The magistrate walked slowly round the room.

"This window was open?" he asked.

"The Marquise always left it like that; she liked all the fresh air she
could get."

"Might not the murderer have got in that way?"

The steward shook his head.

"It is most unlikely, sir. See: the windows are fitted outside with a
kind of grating pointing outwards and downwards, and I think that would
prevent anyone from climbing in."

M. de Presles saw that this was so. Continuing his investigation, he
satisfied himself that there was nothing about the furniture in that
room, or in the dressing-room, to show that the murderer had been
through them, except the disorder on and about the little escritoire. At
last he came to the door which opened on to the corridor.

"Ah!" he exclaimed: "this is interesting!" and with a finger he pointed
to the inner bolt on the door, the screws of which were wrenched half
out, showing that an attempt had been made to force the door. "Did Mme.
de Langrune bolt her door every night?" he asked.

"Yes, always," Dollon answered. "She was very nervous, and if I was the
first to come to bid her good morning I always heard her unfasten that
bolt when I knocked."

M. de Presles made no reply. He made one more tour of the room, minutely
considering the situation of each single article.

"M. Dollon, will you kindly take me where I can have the use of a table
and inkstand, and anything else I may need to get on with my preliminary
enquiry?"

"Your clerk is waiting for you in the library, sir," the steward
replied. "He has everything ready for you there."

"Very well. If it is convenient to you we will join him now."

M. de Presles followed Dollon down to the library on the ground floor,
where his enterprising clerk had already established himself. The
magistrate took his seat behind a large table and called to the police
sergeant.

"I shall ask you to be present during my enquiry, sergeant. The first
investigations will devolve upon you, so it will be well for you to hear
all the details the witnesses can furnish me with. I suppose you have
taken no steps as yet?"

"Beg pardon, sir: I have sent my men out in all directions, with orders
to interrogate all tramps and to detain any who do not give a
satisfactory account of their time last night."

"Good! By the way, while I think of it, have you sent off the telegram I
gave you when I arrived--the telegram to the police head-quarters in
Paris, asking for a detective to be sent down?"

"I took it to the telegraph office myself, sir."

His mind made easy on this score, the young magistrate turned to Dollon.

"Will you please take a seat, sir?" he said and, disregarding the
disapproving looks of his clerk, who had a particular predilection for
all the long circumlocutions and red tape of the law, he pretermitted
the usual questions as to name and age and occupation of the witnesses,
and began his enquiry by questioning the old steward. "What is the exact
plan of the château?" was his first enquiry.

"You know it now, sir, almost as well as I do. The passage from the
front door leads to the main staircase, which we went up just now, to
the first floor where the bedroom of the Marquise is situated. The first
floor contains a series of rooms separated by a corridor. On the right
is Mlle. Thérèse's room, and then come guest-chambers which are not
occupied now. On the left is the bedroom of the Marquise, followed by
her dressing-room on the same side, and after that there is another
dressing-room and then the bedroom occupied by M. Charles Rambert."

"Good. And the floor above: how is that arranged?"

"The second floor is exactly like the first floor, sir, except that
there are only servants' rooms there. They are smaller, and there are
more of them."

"What servants sleep in the house?"

"As a general rule, sir, the two maid-servants, Marie the housemaid and
Louise the cook, and also Hervé the butler; but Hervé did not sleep in
the château last night. He had asked the mistress's permission to go
into the village, and she had given it to him on condition that he did
not come back that night."

"What do you mean?" enquired the magistrate, rather surprised.

"The Marquise was rather nervous, sir, and did not like the idea of
anyone being able to get into the house at night; so she was always
careful to double-lock the front door and the kitchen door herself every
night. She went round all the rooms too every night, and made sure that
all the iron shutters were properly fastened, and that it was impossible
for anyone to get into the house. When Hervé goes out in the evenings he
either sleeps in the village and does not return till the following
morning, which is what he did to-day, or else he asks the coachman to
leave the yard door unlocked, and sleeps in a room above the stables
which as a rule is not occupied."

"That is where the other servants sleep, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir. The gardeners, the coachman, and the keepers all live in the
out-buildings. With regard to myself, I have a small cottage a little
farther away in the park."

M. de Presles sat silent for a few moments, thinking deeply. The only
sound in the room was the irritating squeak of the clerk's quill pen, as
he industriously wrote down all the steward's replies. At last M. de
Presles looked up.

"So, on the night of the crime the only persons sleeping in the château
were Mme. de Langrune, her granddaughter Mlle. Thérèse, M. Charles
Rambert and the two maids. Is that so?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it does not seem likely that the crime was committed by anyone
living in the château?"

"That is so, sir:--and yet I do not believe that anybody got into the
château; only two people had a key of the front door--the Marquise and
myself. When I got to the house this morning I found the door open,
because Mlle. Thérèse went out early with M. Charles Rambert to meet M.
Rambert, senior, at the station, and she opened the door with the keys
that the Marquise had given into her care the night before; but she
told me herself that when she started to meet the train at five o'clock
the door was shut. Mlle. Thérèse had put her keys under her pillow, and
my bunch had never left my possession."

"Is it not possible," the magistrate suggested, "that someone may have
got in during the day, hidden himself, and have committed the crime when
night came? Remember, M. Dollon, the bolt inside Mme. de Langrune's
bedroom door has been wrenched away: that means that the murderer made
his entrance by that door, and made it by force."

But the steward shook his head.

"No, sir, nobody could have secreted himself in the château during the
day; people are always coming to the kitchen, so the back door is under
constant supervision; and all yesterday afternoon there were gardeners
at work on the lawn in front of the main entrance; if any stranger had
presented himself there he would certainly have been seen; and finally,
Mme. de Langrune had given orders, which I always attended to myself, to
keep the door locked through which one gets down to the cellars. So the
murderer could not have hidden in the basement, and where else could he
have hidden? Not in the rooms on the ground floor: there was company to
dinner last night, and all the rooms were used more or less; the
Marquise, or some one of the guests, would certainly have discovered
him. So he would have had to be upstairs, either on the first or second
floor: that is most unlikely: it would have been very risky; besides,
the big house-dog is fastened up at the foot of the staircase during the
day, and he would not have let any stranger pass him: either the dog
must have known the man, or at all events some meat must have been
thrown to him; but there are no traces to show that anything of the sort
was done."

The magistrate was much perplexed.

"Then the crime is inexplicable, M. Dollon. You have just told me
yourself that there was no one in the château but Mme. de Langrune, the
two young people Thérèse and Charles, and the two maids: it certainly is
not any one of those who can be the guilty person, for the way in which
the crime was committed, and the force of the blows dealt, show that
the criminal was a man--a professional murderer in fact. Consequently
the guilty person must have got in from outside. Come now, have you no
suspicions at all?"

The steward raised his arms and let them fall in utter dejection.

"No," he replied at last, "I do not suspect anybody! I cannot suspect
anybody! But, sir, as far as I am concerned, I feel certain that
although the murderer was not one of those who occupied the château last
night he nevertheless did not come in from outside. It was not possible!
The doors were locked and the shutters were fastened."

"Nevertheless," M. de Presles remarked, "inasmuch as someone has
committed a murder, it must necessarily be the fact, either that that
someone was hidden inside the château when Mme. de Langrune herself
locked the front door, or else that he got in during the night. Do you
not see yourself, M. Dollon, that one or other of these two hypotheses
must be correct?"

The steward hesitated.

"It is a mystery, sir," he declared at last. "I swear to you, sir, that
nobody could have got in, and yet it is perfectly clear also that
neither M. Charles nor Mlle. Thérèse, nor yet either of the two maids,
Marie and Louise, is the murderer."

M. de Presles sat wrapped in thought for a few minutes and then desired
the old steward to fetch the two women servants.

"Come back, yourself," he added, as the old man went away; "I may
require further particulars from you."

Dollon left the room, and Gigou, the clerk, leant forward towards the
magistrate: tact was not the most shining of M. Gigou's qualities.

"When your enquiry is finished, sir--presently--we shall have to pay a
visit to the Mayor of Saint-Jaury. That is in accordance with the usual
procedure. And then he cannot do less than invite us to stay to
dinner!"

IV. "NO! I AM NOT MAD!"

The next day but one after the crime, on the Friday, Louise the cook,
who was still terribly upset by the dreadful death of the good mistress
in whose service she had been for fifteen years, came down to her
kitchen early. It was scarcely daybreak, and the good woman was obliged
to light a lamp to see by. With her mind anywhere but on her work, she
was mechanically getting breakfast for the servants and for the visitors
to the château, when a sharp knock on the back door made her jump. She
went to open it, and uttered a little scream as she saw the cocked hats
of gendarmes silhouetted against the wan light of the early morning.

Between the gendarmes were two miserable-looking specimens of humanity.
Louise had only opened the door a few inches when the sergeant, who had
known her for many years, took a step forward and gave her a military
salute.

"I must ask your hospitality for us and for these two fellows whom we
have taken up to-night, prowling about the neighbourhood," he said.

The dismayed Louise broke in.

"Good heavens, sergeant, are you bringing thieves here? Where do you
expect me to put them? Surely there's enough trouble in the house as it
is!"

The gendarme, Morand, smiled with the disillusioned air of a man who
knows very well what trouble is, and the sergeant replied:

"Put them? Why, in your kitchen, of course," and as the servant made a
sign of refusal, he added: "I am sorry, but you must; besides, there's
nothing for you to be afraid of; the men are handcuffed, and we shall
not leave them. We are going to wait here for the magistrate who will
examine them."

The gendarmes had pushed their wretched captives in before them, two
tramps of the shadiest appearance.

Louise, who had gone mechanically to raise the lid of a kettle beginning
to boil over, looked round at his last words.

"The magistrate?" she said: "M. de Presles? Why, he is here now--in the
library."

"No?" exclaimed the sergeant, jumping up from the kitchen chair on which
he had seated himself.

"He is, I tell you," the old woman insisted; "and the little man who
generally goes about with him is here too."

"You mean M. Gigou, his clerk?"

"Very likely," muttered Louise.

"I leave the prisoners with you, Morand," said the sergeant curtly;
"don't let them out of your sight. I am going to the magistrate. I have
no doubt he will wish to interrogate these fellows at once."

The gendarme came to attention and saluted.

"Trust me, sergeant!"

It looked as if Morand's job was going to be an easy one; the two
tramps, huddled up in a corner of the kitchen opposite the stove, showed
no disposition to make their escape. The two were utterly different in
appearance. One was a tall, strongly built man, with thick hair crowned
by a little jockey cap, and was enveloped in a kind of overcoat which
might have been black once but which was now of a greenish hue, the
result of the inclemency of the weather; he gnawed his heavy moustache
in silence and turned sombre, uneasy looks on all, including his
companion in misfortune. He wore hobnailed shoes and carried a stout
cudgel. He was more like a piece of the human wreckage one sees in the
street corners of great cities than a genuine tramp. Instead of a
collar, there was a variegated handkerchief round his neck. His name, he
had told the sergeant, was François Paul.

The other man, who had been discovered at the back of a farm just as he
was about to crawl inside a stack, was a typical country tramp. An old
soft felt hat was crammed down on his head, and a shock of rebellious
red and grey hair curled up all round it, while a hairy beard entirely
concealed all the features of his face. All that could be seen of it was
a pair of sparkling eyes incessantly moving in every possible direction.
This second man contemplated with interest the place into which the
police had conducted him. On his back he bore a heavy sort of wallet in
which he stowed articles of the most varied description. Whereas his
companion maintained a rigid silence, this man never stopped talking.
Nudging his neighbour every now and then he whispered:

"Say, where do you come from? You're not from these parts, are you? I've
never seen you before have I? Everybody round here knows me:
Bouzille--my name's Bouzille," and turning to the gendarme he said:
"Isn't it true, M'sieu Morand, that you and I are old acquaintances?
This is the fourth or fifth time you've pinched me, isn't it?"

Bouzille's companion vouchsafed him a glance.

"So it's a habit of yours, is it?" he said in the same low tone; "you
often get nabbed?"

"As to 'often,'" the garrulous fellow replied, "that depends on what you
mean by the word. In winter time it's not bad business to go back to
clink, because of the rotten weather; in the summer one would rather go
easy, and then, too, in the summer there isn't so much crime; you can
find all you want on the road; country people aren't so particular in
the summer, while in the winter it's quite another thing; so they have
done me down to-night for mother Chiquard's rabbit, I expect."

The gendarme, who had been listening with no great attention, chimed in.

"So it was you who stole the rabbit, was it, Bouzille?"

"What's the good of your asking me that, M'sieu Morand?" protested
Bouzille. "I suppose you would have left me alone if you hadn't been
sure of it?"

Bouzille's companion bent his head and whispered very low:

"There has been something worse than that: the job with the lady of this
house."

"Oh, that!" said Bouzille with a gesture of complete indifference. But
he did not proceed. The sergeant came back to the kitchen and said
sternly:

"François Paul, forward: the examining magistrate will hear you now."

The man summoned stepped towards the sergeant, and quietly submitted to
being taken by the arm, for his hands were fastened. Bouzille winked
knowingly at the gendarme, now his sole remaining confidant, and
remarked with satisfaction:

"Good luck! We are getting on to-day! Not too much 'remanded' about it,"
and as the gendarme, severely keeping his proper distance, made no
reply, the incorrigible chatterbox went on merrily: "As a matter of fact
it suits me just as well to be committed for trial, since the government
give you your board and lodging, and especially since there's a really
beautiful prison at Brives now." He leaned familiarly against the
gendarme's shoulder. "Ah, M'sieu Morand, you didn't know it--you weren't
old enough--why, it was before you joined the force--but the lock-up
used to be in an old building just behind the Law Courts: dirty! I
should think it was dirty! And damp! Why once, when I did three months
there, from January to April, I came out so ill with the rheumatics that
I had to go back into the infirmary for another fortnight! Gad!" he went
on after a moment's pause during which he snuffed the air around him,
"something smells jolly good here!" He unceremoniously addressed the
cook who was busy at her work: "Mightn't there perhaps be a bit of a
blow out for me, Mme. Louise?" and as she turned round with a somewhat
scandalised expression he continued: "you needn't be frightened, lady,
you know me very well. Many a time I've come and asked you for any old
thing, and you've always given me something. M'sieu Dollon, too:
whenever he has an old pair of shoes that are worn out, well, those are
mine; and a crust of bread is what nobody ever refuses."

The cook hesitated, touched by the recollections evoked by the poor
tramp; she looked at the gendarme for a sign of encouragement. Morand
shrugged his shoulders and turned a patronising gaze on Bouzille.

"Give him something, if you like, Mme. Louise. After all, he is well
known. And for my own part I don't believe he could have done it."

The tramp interrupted him.

"Ah, M'sieu Morand, if it's a matter of picking up trifles here and
there, a wandering rabbit, perhaps, or a fowl that's tired of being
lonely, I don't say no; but as for anything else--thank'ee kindly,
lady."

Louise had handed Bouzille a huge chunk of bread which he immediately
interned in the depths of his enormous bag.

"What do you suppose that other chap can have to tell Mr. Paul Pry? He
did not look like a regular! Now when I get before the gentlemen in
black, I don't want to contradict them, and so I always say, 'Yes, my
lord,' and they are perfectly satisfied; sometimes they laugh and the
president of the court says, 'Stand up, Bouzille,' and then he gives me
a fortnight, or twenty-one days, or a month, as the case may be."

The sergeant came back, alone, and addressed the gendarme.

"The other man has been discharged," he said. "As for Bouzille, M. de
Presles does not think there is any need to interrogate him."

"Am I to be punted out then?" enquired the tramp with some dismay, as he
looked uneasily towards the window, against the glass of which rain was
lashing.

The sergeant could not restrain a smile.

"Well, no, Bouzille," he said kindly, "we must take you to the lock-up;
there's the little matter of the rabbit to be cleared up, you know. Come
now, quick march! Take him to Saint-Jaury, Morand!"

The sergeant went back to the library to hold himself at the
magistrate's disposal; through the torrential downpour of rain Bouzille
and the gendarme wended their way to the village; and left alone in her
kitchen, Louise put out her lamp, for despite the shocking weather it
was getting lighter now, and communed with herself.

"I've a kind of idea that they would have done better to keep that other
man. He was a villainous-looking fellow!"

The sad, depressing day had passed without any notable incident.

Charles Rambert and his father had spent the afternoon with Thérèse and
the Baronne de Vibray continuously addressing large black-edged
envelopes to the relations and friends of the Marquise de Langrune,
whose funeral had been fixed for the next day but one.

A hasty dinner had been served at which the Baronne de Vibray was
present. Her grief was distressing to witness. Somewhat futile to
outward seeming, this woman had a very kind and tender heart; as a
matter of course she had constituted herself the protector and comforter
of Thérèse, and she had spent the whole of the previous day with the
child at Brives, ransacking the local shops to procure her mourning.

Thérèse was terribly shocked by the dreadful death of her grandmother
whom she adored, but she displayed unexpected strength of character and
controlled her grief so that she might be able to look after the guests
whom she was now entertaining for the first time as mistress of the
house. The Baronne de Vibray had failed in her attempt to persuade
Thérèse to come with her to Querelles to sleep. Thérèse was determined
in her refusal to leave the château and what she termed her "post of
duty."

"Marie will stay with me," she assured the kind Baronne, "and I promise
you I shall have sufficient courage to go to sleep to-night."

So her friend got into her car alone at nine o'clock and went back to
her own house, and Thérèse went up at once to bed with Marie, the
faithful servant who, like Louise the cook, had been with her ever since
she was born.

After having read all the newspapers, with their minute and often
inaccurate account of the tragedy at Beaulieu--for everyone in the
château had been besieged the previous day by reporters and
representatives of various press agencies--M. Etienne Rambert said to
his son simply, but with a marked gravity:

"Let us go upstairs, my son: it is time."

At the door of his room Charles deferentially offered his cheek to his
father, but M. Etienne Rambert seemed to hesitate; then, as if taking a
sudden resolution, he entered his son's room instead of going on to his
own. Charles kept silence and refrained from asking any questions, for
he had noticed how lost in sad thought his father had seemed to be since
the day before.

Charles Rambert was very tired. He began to undress at once. He had
taken off his coat and waistcoat, and was turning towards a
looking-glass to undo his tie, when his father came up to him; with an
abrupt movement M. Etienne Rambert put both his hands on his son's
shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. Then in a stifled but
peremptory tone he said:

"Now confess, unhappy boy! Confess to your father!"

Charles went ghastly white.

"What?" he muttered.

Etienne Rambert kept his eyes fixed upon him.

"It was you who committed the murder!"

The ringing denial that the young man tried to utter was strangled in
his throat; he threw out his arms and groped with his hands as if to
find something to support him in his faintness; then he pulled himself
together.

"Committed the murder? I? You accuse me of having killed the Marquise?
It is infamous, hateful, awful!"

"Alas, yes!"

"No, no! Good God, no!"

"Yes!" Etienne Rambert insisted.

The two men faced each other, panting. Charles controlled the emotion
which was sweeping over him once more, and looking steadily at his
father, said in tones of bitter reproach:

"And it is actually my own father who says that--who suspects me!"

Tears filled the young fellow's eyes and sobs choked him; he grew whiter
still, and seemed so near collapse that his father had to support him to
a chair, where he remained for several minutes utterly prostrated.

M. Rambert paced up and down the room a few times, then took another
chair and sat down in front of his son. Passing a hand across his brow
as if to sweep away the horrible nightmare that was haunting him, he
spoke again.

"Come now, my boy, my poor boy, let us talk it over quietly. I do not
know how it was, but yesterday morning when I saw you at the station I
had a presentiment of something: you were haggard, and tired, and your
eyes were drawn----"

"I told you before," Charles answered tonelessly "that I had had a bad
night: I was over-excited and did not sleep: I was awake the whole
night."

"By Jove, yes!" his father rapped out: "I can believe that! But if you
were not asleep, how do you account for your not hearing anything?"

"Thérèse did not hear anything either," said Charles after a moment's
reflection.

"Thérèse's room was a long way off," M. Rambert replied, "while there
was only a thin wall between yours and that of the Marquise. You must
have heard: you did hear! More than that----, oh, my boy, my unhappy
boy!"

Charles was twisting and untwisting his hands, and great drops of cold
perspiration beaded his brow.

"You are the only single person who thinks I committed such an awful
crime!" he said, half questioningly.

"The only one?" Etienne Rambert muttered. "Perhaps! As yet! But you
ought to know that you made a very bad impression indeed upon the
friends of the Marquise during the evening before the crime, when
President Bonnet was reading the particulars of a murder that had been
committed in Paris by--somebody: I forget whom."

"Good heavens!" Charles exclaimed in indignation, "I did not say
anything wrong. Do you mean to say that just because I am interested in
stories of great criminals like Rocambole and Fantômas----"

"You created a deplorable impression," his father repeated.

"So they suspect me too, do they?" Charles enquired. "But you can't make
accusations like that," he said, warming up: "you've got to have facts,
and proofs." He looked at his father for the sympathy and encouragement
of affection. "Listen, papa, I know you will believe me when I swear
that I am innocent; but do you think other people----"

M. Etienne Rambert sat with his head between his hands, wrapped in
thought; there was a short silence before the unhappy father replied:

"Unfortunately there is evidence against you," he said at last; "and
damning evidence, too!" he added with a glance at his son that seemed to
pulverise him. "Terrible evidence! Consider, Charles: the magistrates
have decided, as a result of their investigations, that no one got into
the château on the fatal night; you were the only man who slept there;
and none but a man could possibly have committed such a horrible crime,
such a monstrous piece of butchery!"

"Someone might have got in from outside," the unhappy lad urged, as if
trying to escape from the network in which he was being entangled.

"No one did," Etienne Rambert insisted; "besides, how could you prove
it?"

Charles was silent. He stood in the middle of the room, with trembling
legs and haggard eyes, seemingly stupefied and incapable of coherent
thought, vacantly watching his father. With bent head and shoulders
bowed as though beneath a too-heavy load, Etienne Rambert moved towards
the dressing-room attached to the bedroom.

"Come here," he said in an almost inaudible voice; "follow me."

He went into the dressing-room, and picking up the towels that were
heaped anyhow on the lower rail of the washstand, he selected a very
crumpled one and held it out in front of his son.

"Look at that!" he said in a low, curt tone.

And on the towel, thus held in the light, Charles Rambert saw red stains
of blood. The lad started, and was about to burst into some
protestation, but Etienne Rambert imperiously checked him.

"Do you still deny it? Unhappy, wretched boy, there is the convincing,
irrefutable evidence of your guilt! These stains of blood proclaim it.
Something always is overlooked! How are you to explain the presence of
this blood-stained linen in your room? Can you still deny that it is
proof positive of your guilt?"

"But I do deny it, I do deny it! I don't understand! I know nothing
about it!" and once more Charles Rambert collapsed into the arm-chair;
the unhappy lad was nothing but a human wreck, with no strength to argue
or even utter a word.

His father's eyes rested on him, filled with infinite affection and
profoundest pity.

"My poor, poor boy!" the unhappy Etienne Rambert murmured, and added, as
if speaking only to himself: "I wonder if you are not entirely
responsible--if there are circumstances to plead for you!"

"Do you still accuse me, papa? Do you really believe I am the murderer?"

Etienne Rambert shook his head hopelessly.

"Oh, I wish, I wish," he exclaimed, "that for the honour of our name,
and for the sake of those who love us, I could prove you had congenital,
hereditary tendencies that made you not responsible! Why could not I
have watched over your upbringing? Why has fate decreed that I should
only see my son three times at most in eighteen years, and come home to
find him--a criminal? Oh, if science could but establish the fact that
the child of a tainted mother----"

"Tainted?" Charles exclaimed; "what do you mean?"

"Tainted with a terrible and mysterious disease," Etienne Rambert went
on: "a disease before which we are powerless and unarmed--insanity!"

"What?" cried Charles, growing momentarily more distressed and
bewildered; "what is that, papa? Are my wits going? My mother insane?"
And then he added hopelessly: "My God! You must be right! Often and
often I have been amazed by her strange, puzzling looks and behaviour!
But I--I have all my proper senses: I know what I am doing!"

"Was it, perhaps, some appalling hallucination," Etienne Rambert
suggested: "some moment of irresponsibility?"

But Charles saw what he meant and cut him short.

"No, no, papa! I am not mad! I am not mad! I am not mad!"

In his intense excitement the young fellow never thought of moderating
the tone of his voice, but shouted out what was in his mind, shouted it
into the silence of the night, heedless of all but this terrible
discussion he was having with the father whom he loved. Nor did Etienne
Rambert lower his voice: his son's impassioned protest wrung the retort
from him:

"Then, Charles, if you are right, your crime is beyond forgiveness!
Murderer! Murderer!"

The two men stopped short as a slight sound in the passage caught their
attention. A silence fell upon them that they could not break, and they
stood dumbfounded, nervous and overwrought.

The door of the room opened very slowly, and a white form appeared
against the darkness of the corridor outside.

Robed in a long night-dress, Thérèse stood there, with hair dishevelled,
bloodless lips, and eyes dilated with horror; the child was shaking from
head to foot; as if every movement hurt her, she painfully raised her
arm and pointed to Charles.

"Thérèse!" Etienne Rambert muttered: "Thérèse, you were outside?"

The child's lips moved: she seemed to be making a more than human
effort, and a whisper escaped her lips:

"Yes----"

But she could say no more: her eyes rolled, her whole frame tottered,
and then, without sign or cry, she fell rigid and unconscious to the
floor.

V. "ARREST ME!"

Twelve or thirteen miles from Souillac the main line from Brives to
Cahors, which flanks the slope, describes a rather sharp curve. The
journey is a particularly picturesque one, and travellers who make it
during the daytime have much that is interesting and agreeable to see;
but while they are admiring the country, which marks the transition from
the severe region of the Limousin to the more laughing landscapes on the
confines of the Midi, the train suddenly plunges into a tunnel which
runs for half a mile and more through the heart of the mountain slope.
Leaving the tunnel, the line continues along the slope, then gradually
descends towards Souillac. Two or three miles from that little station,
which is a junction, the line runs alongside the highroad to Salignac,
skirts for a brief distance the Corrèze, one of the largest tributaries
on the right bank of the Dordogne, and then plunges into the heart of
Lot.

Torrential winter rains had seriously affected the railway embankment,
particularly near the mouth of the tunnel; a succession of heavy storms
in the early part of December had so greatly weakened the ballast that
the chief engineers of the Company had been hastily summoned to the
scene of the mischief. The experts decided that very important repairs
were required close to the Souillac end of the tunnel. It was necessary
to put in a complete system of drainage, with underground pipes through
which the water that came down from the mountain could escape between
the ballast and the side of the rock and so pass underneath the
permanent way. The sleepers, too, had been loosened by the bad weather,
and some of them had perished so much that the chairs were no longer
fast, a matter which was all the more serious because the line described
a very sharp curve at that precise spot.

Gangs of first-class navvies had been hurriedly requisitioned, but in
spite of the fact that an exceptional rate of wages was paid, a local
strike had broken out and for some days all work was stopped. Gradually,
however, moderate counsels prevailed and for over a week now, nearly all
the men had taken up their tools again. Nevertheless, for a month past,
these various circumstances had resulted in all the trains running
between Brives and Cahors, being regularly half an hour late. Further,
in view of the dangerous state of the line, all engine drivers coming
from Brives had received orders to stop their trains two hundred yards
from the end of the tunnel, and all drivers coming from Cahors to stop
their trains five hundred yards before the entrance to the tunnel, so
that should a train appear while any work was going on which rendered it
dangerous to pass, it could wait until the work was completed. The order
was also issued with the primary object of preventing the workers on the
line from being taken by surprise.

Day was just breaking this grey December morning, when the gang of
navvies set to work under a foreman, fixing on the down line the new
sleepers which had been brought up the day before. Suddenly a shrill
whistle was heard, and in the gaping black mouth of the tunnel the light
of two lamps became visible; a train bound for Cahors had stopped in
accordance with orders, and was calling for permission to pass.

The foreman ranged his men on either side of the down line and walked to
a small cabin erected at the mouth of the tunnel, where he pulled the
hand-signal so as to show the green light, thereby authorising the train
to proceed on its way.

There was a second short, sharp whistle; heavy puffs escaped from the
engine, and belching forth a dense volume of black smoke it slowly
emerged from the tunnel, followed by a long train of carriages, the
windows of which were frosted all over by the cold temperature outside.

A man approached the cabin allotted to the plate-layer in charge of that
section of the line in which the tunnel was included.

"I suppose this is the train due at Verrières at 6.55?" he said
carelessly.

"Yes," the plate-layer answered, "but it's late, for the clock down
there in the valley struck seven several minutes ago."

The train had gone by: the three red lamps fastened at the end of it
were already lost in the morning mist.

The man who spoke to the plate-layer was no other than François Paul,
the tramp who had been discharged by the magistrate installed at the
château of Beaulieu, at precisely the same time the day before, after a
brief examination. In spite of the deep wrinkle furrowed in his brow the
man seemed to make an effort to appear friendly and to want to carry on
the conversation.

"There aren't many people in this morning train," he remarked,
"specially in the first-class carriages."

The plate-layer appeared in no wise unwilling to postpone for a few
moments his tiring and chilly underground patrol; he put down his pick
before answering.

"Well, that's not surprising, is it? People who are rich enough to
travel first-class always come by the express which gets to Brives at
2.50 A.M."

"I see," said François Paul; "that's reasonable: and more practical for
travellers to Brives or Cahors. But what about the people who want to
get out at Gourdon, or Souillac, or Verrières, or any of the small
stations where the express doesn't stop?"

"I don't know," said the plate-layer; "but I suppose they have to get
out at Brives or Cahors and drive, or else travel by the day trains,
which are fast to Brives and slow afterwards."

François Paul did not press the matter. He lit a pipe and breathed upon
his benumbed fingers.

"Hard times, these, and no mistake!"

The plate-layer seemed sorry for him.

"I don't suppose you're an independent gentleman, but why don't you try
to get taken on here?" he suggested. "They want hands here."

"Oh, do they?"

"That's the fact; this is the foreman coming along now: would you like
me to speak to him for you?"

"No hurry," replied François Paul. "'Course, I'm not saying no, but I
should like to see what sort of work it is they're doing here: it might
not suit me; I shall still have time to get a couple of words with him,"
and with his eyes on the ground the tramp slowly walked along the
embankment away from the plate-layer.

The foreman met and passed him, and came up to the plate-layer at the
mouth of the tunnel.

"Well, Michu, how goes it with you? Still got the old complaint?"

"Middling, boss," the worthy fellow answered: "just keeping up, you
know. And how's yourself? And the work? When shall you finish? I don't
know if you know it, but these trains stopping regularly in my section
give me an extra lot of work."

"How's that?" the foreman enquired in surprise.

"The engine drivers take advantage of the stop to empty their ash-pans,
and they leave a great heap of mess there in my tunnel, which I'm
obliged to clear away. In the ordinary way they dump it somewhere else:
where, I don't know, but not in my tunnel, and that's all I care about."

The foreman laughed.

"You're a good 'un, Michu! If I were you I would ask the Company to give
me another man or two."

"And do you suppose the Company would?" Michu retorted. "By the way,
that poor devil who is going along there, shivering with cold and
hunger, was grumbling to me just now, and I advised him to ask you to
take him on. What do you think he said? Why, that he would have a look
at the work first, and off he went."

"It's a fact, Michu, that it's mighty difficult to come across people
who mean business nowadays. It's quite true that I want more hands. But
if that chap doesn't ask me to engage him in another minute, I'll kick
him out. The embankment is not public property, and I don't trust these
rascals who are for ever coming and going among the workmen to see what
mischief they can make. I'll go and cast an eye over the bolts and
things, for there are all sorts of vagrants about the neighbourhood just
now."

"And criminals, too," said old Michu. "I suppose you have heard of the
murder up at the château of Beaulieu?"

"Rather! My men are talking of nothing else. But you are right, Michu, I
will get a closer look at all strangers, and at your friend in
particular."

The foreman stopped abruptly; he had been examining the foot of the
embankment, and was standing quite still, watching. The plate-layer
followed his glance, and also stood fixed. After a few moments' silence
the two men looked at each other and smiled. In the half-light of the
valley they had seen the outline of a gendarme; he was on foot and
appeared to be looking for somebody, while making no attempt to remain
unseen himself.

"Good!" whispered Michu; "that's sergeant Doucet: I know him by his
stripes. They say the murder was not committed by anyone belonging to
this part of the country; everybody was fond of the Marquise de
Langrune."

"Look! Look!" the foreman broke in, pointing to the gendarme who was
slowly climbing up the embankment. "It looks as if the sergeant were
making for the gentleman who was looking for work just now and hoped he
would not find it. The sergeant's got a word for him, eh, what?"

"That might be," said Michu after a moment's further watching. "That
chap has a villainous, ugly face. One can tell from the way he's dressed
that he don't belong to our parts."

The two men waited with utmost interest to see what was going to happen.

Sergeant Doucet reached the top of the embankment at last and hurried
past the navvies, who stopped their work to stare inquisitively after
the representative of authority. Fifty yards beyond them, François Paul,
wrapped in thought, was walking slowly down towards the station of
Verrières. Hearing the sound of steps behind him, he turned. When he saw
the sergeant he frowned. He glanced rapidly about him and saw that while
he was alone with the gendarme, so that no one could overhear what they
said, however loudly they might speak, they were yet in such a position
that every sign and movement they made would be perfectly visible to
whoever might watch them. And as the gendarme paused a few paces from
him and--remarkable fact--seemed to be on the point of bringing his hand
to his cap in salute, the mysterious tramp rapped out:

"I thought I said no one was to disturb me, sergeant?"

The sergeant took a pace forward.

"I beg your pardon, Inspector, but I have important news for you."

For this François Paul, whom the sergeant thus respectfully addressed as
Inspector, was no other than an officer of the secret police who had
been sent down to Beaulieu the day before from head-quarters in Paris.

He was no ordinary officer. As if M. Havard had had an idea that the
Langrune affair would prove to be puzzling and complicated, he had
singled out the very best of his detectives, the most expert inspector
of them all--Juve. It was Juve who for the last forty-eight hours had
been prowling about the château of Beaulieu disguised as a tramp, and
had had himself arrested with Bouzille that he might prosecute his own
investigations without raising the slightest suspicion as to his real
identity.

Juve made a face expressive of his vexation at the over-deferential
attitude of the sergeant.

"Do pay attention!" he said low. "We are being watched. If I must go
back with you, pretend to arrest me. Slip the handcuffs on me!"

"I beg your pardon, Inspector: I don't like to," the gendarme answered.

For all reply, Juve turned his back on him.

"Look here," he said, "I will take a step or two forward as if I meant
to run away; then you must put your hand on my shoulder roughly, and I
will stumble; when I do, slip the bracelets on."

From the mouth of the tunnel the plate-layer, the foreman and the
navvies all followed with their eyes the unintelligible conversation
passing between the gendarme and the tramp a hundred yards away.
Suddenly they saw the man try to get off and the sergeant seize him
almost simultaneously. A few minutes later the individual, with his
hands linked together in front of him, was obediently descending the
steep slope of the embankment, by the gendarme's side, and then the two
men disappeared behind a clump of trees.

"I understand why that chap was not very keen on getting taken on here,"
said the foreman. "His conscience was none too easy!"

As they walked briskly in the direction of Beaulieu Juve asked the
sergeant:

"What has happened at the château, then?"

"They know who the murderer is, Inspector," the sergeant answered.
"Little Mlle. Thérèse----"

VI. "FANTÔMAS, IT IS DEATH!"

Hurrying back towards the château with the sergeant, Juve ran into M. de
Presles outside the park gate. The magistrate had just arrived from
Brives in a motor-car which he had commandeered for his personal use
during the last few days.

"Well," said Juve in his quiet, measured tones, "have you heard the
news?" And as the magistrate looked at him in surprise he went on: "I
gather from your expression that you have not. Well, sir, if you will
kindly fill up a warrant we will arrest M. Charles Rambert."

Juve briefly repeated to the magistrate what the sergeant had reported
to him, and the sergeant added a few further details. The three men had
now reached the foot of the steps before the house and were about to go
up when the door of the château was opened and Dollon appeared. He
hurried towards them, with unkempt hair and haggard face, and excitedly
exclaimed:

"Didn't you meet the Ramberts? Where are they? Where are they?"

The magistrate, who was bewildered by what Juve had told him, was trying
to form a coherent idea of the whole sequence of events, but the
detective realised the situation at once, and turned to the sergeant.

"The bird has flown," he said. The sergeant threw up his hands in
dismay.

Inside the hall Juve and M. de Presles ordered Dollon to give them an
exact account of the discovery made by Thérèse in the course of the
previous night.

"Well, gentlemen," said the old fellow, who was greatly upset by the
discovery of the murderer of the Marquise de Langrune, "when I got to
the château early this morning I found the two old servants, Marie and
Louise, entirely occupied attending to the young mistress. Marie slept
in an adjoining room to hers last night, and was awakened about five
o'clock by the poor child's inarticulate cries. Mlle. Thérèse was bathed
in perspiration; her face was all drawn and there were dark rings under
her eyes; she was sleeping badly and evidently having a dreadful
nightmare. She half woke up several times and muttered some
unintelligible words to Marie, who thought that it was the result of
over-excitement. But about six o'clock, just as I arrived, Mlle. Thérèse
really woke up, and bursting into a fit of sobbing and crying, repeated
the names of her grandmother and the Ramberts and the Baronne de Vibray.
She kept on saying, 'The murderer! the murderer!' and making all sorts
of signs of terror, but we were not able to get from her a clear
statement of what it was all about. I felt her pulse and found she was
very feverish, and Louise prepared a cooling drink, which she persuaded
her to take. In about twenty minutes--it was then nearly half-past
six--Mlle. Thérèse quietened down, and managed to tell us what she had
heard during the night, and the dreadful interview and conversation
between M. Rambert and his son which she had seen and overheard."

"What did you do then?" enquired M. de Presles.

"I was dreadfully upset myself, sir, and I sent Jean, the coachman, to
Saint-Jaury to fetch the doctor and also to let Sergeant Doucet know.
Sergeant Doucet got here first; I told him all I knew, and then I went
upstairs with the doctor to see Mlle. Thérèse."

The magistrate turned to the police-sergeant and questioned him.

"Directly M. Dollon told me his story," the sergeant replied, "I thought
it my duty to report to M. Juve, who I knew was not far from the
château, on his way to Verrières: M. Juve told me last night that he
meant to explore that part in the early morning. I left Morand on duty
at the entrance to the château, with orders to prevent either of the
Ramberts from leaving."

"And Morand did not see them going away?" the magistrate asked.

Juve had already divined what had happened, and replied for the
sergeant.

"Morand did not see them go out for the obvious reason that they had
left long before--in the middle of the night, directly after their
altercation: in a word, before Mlle. Thérèse woke up." He turned to the
sergeant. "What has been done since then?"

"Nothing, Inspector."

"Well, sergeant," said Juve. "I imagine his worship will order you to
send out your men at once after the runaways." As a matter of courtesy
he glanced at the magistrate as if asking for his approval, but he only
did so out of politeness, for he took it for granted.

"Of course!" said the magistrate; "please do so at once." The sergeant
turned on his heel and left the hall.

"Where is Mlle. Thérèse?" M. de Presles asked Dollon, who was standing
nervously apart.

"She is sleeping quietly just now, sir," said the steward, coming
forward. "The doctor is with her, and would rather she were not
disturbed, if you have no objection."

"Very well," said the magistrate. "Leave us, please," and Dollon also
went away.

Juve and M. de Presles looked at one another. The magistrate was the
first to break the silence.

"So it is finished?" he remarked. "So this Charles Rambert is the
culprit?"

Juve shook his head.

"Charles Rambert? Well, he ought to be the culprit."

"Why that reservation?" enquired the magistrate.

"I say 'ought to be,' for all the circumstances point to that
conclusion, and yet in my bones I don't believe he is."

"Surely the presumptions of his guilt, his pseudo-confession, or at
least his silence in face of his father's formal accusation, may make us
sure he is," said M. de Presles.

"There are some presumptions in favour of his innocence too," Juve
replied, but with a slight hesitation.

The magistrate pressed his point.

"Your investigations formally demonstrated the fact that the crime was
committed by some person who was inside the house."

"Possibly," said Juve, "but not certainly. The probabilities do not
allow us to assert it as a fact."

"Explain yourself."

"Not so fast, sir," Juve replied, and getting up he added: "There is
nothing for us to do here, sir; shall we go up to the room Charles
Rambert occupied?"

M. de Presles followed the detective, and the two men went into the
room, which was as plainly furnished as that of any young girl. The
magistrate installed himself comfortably in an easy chair and lighted a
cigar, while Juve walked up and down, scrutinising everything with
quick, sharp glances, and began to talk:

"I said 'not so fast' just now, sir, and I will tell you why: in my
opinion there are two preliminary points in this affair which it is
important to clear up: the nature of the crime, and the motive which can
have actuated the criminal. Let us take up these two points, and first
of all ask ourselves how the murder of the Marquise de Langrune ought to
be 'classified' in the technical sense. The first conclusion which must
be impressed upon the mind of any observant person who has visited the
scene of the crime and examined the corpse of the victim is, that this
murder must be placed in the category of crapulous crimes. The murderer
seems to have left the implicit mark of his character upon his victim;
the very violence of the blows dealt shows that he is a man of the lower
orders, a typical criminal, a professional."

"What do you deduce that from?" M. de Presles enquired.

"Simply from the nature of the wound. You saw it, as I did. Mme. de
Langrune's throat was almost entirely severed by the blade of some
cutting instrument. The breadth and depth of the wound absolutely prove
that it was not made with one stroke; the murderer must have gone amok
and dealt several blows--have gone on striking even when death had
finished his work, or at least was quite inevitable; that shows clearly
that the murderer belongs to a class of individuals who feel no
repugnance for their horrid work, but who kill without horror, and even
without excitement. Again, the nature of the wound shows that the
murderer is a strong man; you no doubt know that weak men with feeble
muscles strike 'deep' by choice, that is to say with a pointed weapon
and aiming at a vital organ, whereas powerful murderers have a
predilection for blows dealt 'superficially,' and for broad, ghastly
wounds. Besides, that is only following a natural law; a weak man
finesses with death, tries to make sure of it at some precise point,
penetrating the heart or severing an artery; a brutal man does not care
where he hits, but trusts to his own brute strength to achieve his
purpose.

"We have next to determine the sort of weapon with which the murder was
committed. We have not got it, at any rate up to the present; I have
given orders for the drains to be emptied, and the pond to be dragged
and the shrubberies to be searched, but, whether our search is crowned
with success or not, I am convinced that the instrument was a knife, one
of those common knives with a catch lock that apaches always carry. If
the murderer had had a weapon whose point was its principal danger, he
would have stabbed, and stabbed to the heart, instead of cutting; but he
used the edge, the part of a knife that is most habitually used, and he
actually cut. When the first wound was made he did not strike anywhere
else, but continued working away at the wound and enlarging it. It is a
point of capital importance that this murder was committed with a knife,
not with a dagger or stiletto, and therefore this is a crapulous crime."

"And what conclusion do you draw from the fact that the crime is a
crapulous one?" the magistrate proceeded to enquire.

"Merely that it cannot have been committed by Charles Rambert," Juve
answered very gravely. "He is a young man who has been well brought up,
he comes of very good stock, and his age makes it most improbable that
he can be a professional criminal."

"Obviously, obviously!" murmured the magistrate, not a little
embarrassed by the keen logic of the detective.

"And now let us consider the motive or motives of the crime," Juve
continued. "Why did the man commit this murder?"

"Doubtless for purposes of robbery," said the magistrate.

"What did he want to steal?" Juve retorted. "As a matter of fact, Mme.
de Langrune's diamond rings and watch and purse were all found on her
table, in full view of everybody; in the drawers that had been broken
open I found other jewels, over twenty pounds in gold and silver, and
three bank-notes in a card-case. What is your view, sir, of a crapulous
robber who sees valuables like that within his reach, and who does not
take them?"

"It is certainly surprising," the magistrate admitted.

"Very surprising; and goes to show that although the crime in itself is
a common, sordid one, the criminal may have had higher, or at any rate
different, aspirations from those which would lead an ordinary ruffian
to commit murder for the sake of robbery. The age and social position
and personality of Mme. de Langrune make it very unlikely that she had
enemies, or was the object of vengeance, and therefore if she was got
rid of, it was very likely that she might be robbed--but robbed of what?
Was there something more important than money or jewels to be got? I
frankly admit that although I put the question I am at a loss how to
answer it."

"Obviously," murmured the magistrate again, still more puzzled by all
these logical deductions.

Juve proceeded with the development of his ideas.

"And now suppose we are face to face with a crime committed without any
motive, as a result of some morbid impulse, a by no means uncommon
occurrence, monomania or temporary insanity?

"In that case, although, in consequence of the crapulous nature of the
crime, I had previously dismissed the very serious presumption of guilt
attaching to young Rambert, I should be inclined to reconsider my
opinion and think it possible that he might be the culprit. We know very
little about the young fellow from the physiological point of view; in
fact we don't know him at all; but it seems that his family is not
altogether normal, and I understand that his mother's mental condition
is precarious. If for a moment we regard Charles Rambert as a
hysterical subject, we can associate him with the murder of the Marquise
de Langrune without thereby destroying our case that the crime is a
crapulous one, for a man of only medium physical strength, when
suffering from an attack of mental alienation, has his muscular power
increased at least tenfold during his paroxysms. Under such influence as
that Charles Rambert might have committed murder with all the fierce
brutality of a giant!

"But I shall soon be in possession of absolutely accurate knowledge as
to the muscular strength of the murderer," Juve proceeded. "Quite lately
M. Bertillon invented a marvellous dynamometer which enables us not only
to ascertain what kind of lever has been used to force a lock or a piece
of furniture, but also to determine the exact strength of the individual
who used the tools. I have taken samples of the wood from the broken
drawer, and I shall soon have exact information."

"That will be immensely important," M. de Presles agreed. "Even if it
does away with our present certainty of Charles Rambert's guilt, we
shall be able to find out whether the murder was committed by any other
occupant of the house--still assuming that it was committed by some
member of the household."

"With regard to that," said Juve, "we can proceed with our method of
deduction and eliminate from our field of observation everybody who has
a good alibi or other defence; it will be so much ground cleared. For my
own part I find it impossible to suspect the two old maidservants,
Louise and Marie; the tramps whom we have detained and subsequently
released are too simple-minded, elementary people to have been capable
of devising the minute precautions which demonstrate the subtle
cleverness of the man who murdered the Marquise. Then there is Dollon;
but I imagine you will agree with me in thinking that his alibi removes
him from suspicion--more especially as the medical evidence proves that
the murder was committed during the night, between two and three
o'clock."

"Only M. Etienne Rambert is left," the magistrate put in, "and about
nine o'clock that evening he left the d'Orsay station in the slow train
which reaches Verrières at 6.55 A.M. He spent the whole night in the
train, for he certainly arrived by that one. He could not have a better
alibi."

"Not possibly," Juve replied. "So we need only trouble ourselves with
Charles Rambert," and warming up to the subject the detective proceeded
to pile up a crushing indictment against the young man. "The crime was
committed so quietly that not the faintest sound was heard; therefore
the murderer was in the house; he went to the Marquise's room and
announced his arrival by a cautious tap on the door; the Marquise then
opened the door to him, and was not surprised to see him, for she knew
him quite well; he went into her room with her and----"

"Oh, come, come!" M. de Presles broke in; "you are romancing now, M.
Juve; you forget that the bedroom door was forced, the best proof of
that being the bolt, which was found wrenched away and hanging literally
at the end of the screws."

"I was expecting you to say that, sir," said Juve with a smile. "But
before I reply I should like to show you something rather quaint." He
led the way across the passage and went into the bedroom of the
Marquise, where order had now been restored; the dead body had been
removed to the library, which was transformed into a _chapelle ardente_,
and two nuns were watching over it there. "Have a good look at this
bolt," he said to M. de Presles. "Is there anything unusual about it?"

"No," said the magistrate.

"Yes, there is," said Juve; "the slide-bolt is out, as when the bolt is
fastened, but the socket into which the slide-bolt slips to fasten the
door to the wall is intact. If the bolt really had been forced, the
socket would have been wrenched away too." Juve next asked M. de Presles
to look closely at the screws that were wrenched halfway out of the
door. "Do you see anything on those?"

The magistrate pointed to their heads.

"There are tiny scratches on them," he said, rather hesitatingly, for in
his inmost heart he knew the detective's real superiority over himself,
"and from those I must infer that the screws have not been wrenched out
by the pressure exerted on the bolt, but really unscrewed, and
therefore----"

"And therefore," Juve broke in, "this is a mere blind, from which we may
certainly draw the conclusion that the murderer wished to make us
believe that the door was forced, whereas in reality it was opened to
him by the Marquise. Therefore the murderer was personally known to
her!"

"The murderer was personally known to her," he repeated. "Now I should
like to remind you of young Charles Rambert's equivocal behaviour in the
course of the evening that preceded the crime. It struck President
Bonnet and shocked the priest. I also recall his hereditary antecedents,
his mothers insanity, and finally----" Juve broke off abruptly and
unceremoniously dragged the magistrate out of the room and into Charles
Rambert's bedroom. He hurried into the dressing-room adjoining, went
down on his knees on the floor, and laid a finger on the middle of the
oil-cloth that was laid over the boards. "What do you see there, sir?"
he demanded.

The magistrate adjusted his eyeglass and, looking at the place indicated
by the detective, saw a little black stain; he wetted his finger, rubbed
it on the spot, and then, holding up his hand, observed that the tip of
his finger was stained red.

"It is blood," he muttered.

"Yes, blood," said Juve, "and I gather from this that the story of the
blood-stained towel which M. Rambert senior found among his son's
things, and the sight of which so greatly impressed Mlle. Thérèse, was
not an invention on that young lady's part, but really existed; and it
forms the most damning evidence possible against the young man. He
obviously washed his hands after the crime in the water from the tap
over this wash-hand basin here, but one drop of blood falling on the
towel and dripping on to the floor has been enough to give him away."

The magistrate nodded.

"It is conclusive," he said. "You have just proved to demonstration, M.
Juve, that Charles Rambert is the guilty party. It is beyond argument.
It is conclusive--conclusive!"

There were a couple of seconds of silence, and then Juve suddenly said
"No!"

"No!" he repeated; "it is quite true that we can adduce perfectly
logical arguments to show that the murder was committed by some member
of the household and that, therefore, Charles Rambert is the only
possible culprit; but we can adduce equally logical arguments to show
that the crime was committed by some person who got in from outside:
there is nothing to prove that he did not walk into the house through
the front door."

"The door was locked," said the magistrate.

"That's nothing," said Juve with a laugh. "Don't forget that there isn't
such a thing as a real safety lock nowadays--since all locks can be
opened with an outside key. If I had found one of the good old-fashioned
catch locks on the door, such as they used to make years ago, I should
have said to you: nobody got in, because the only way to get through a
door fastened with one of those locks is to break the door down. But
here we have a lock that can be opened with a key. Now the key does not
exist of which one cannot get an impression, and there is not such a
thing as an impression from which one cannot manufacture a false key.
The murderer could easily have got into the house with a duplicate key."

The magistrate raised a further objection.

"If the murderer had got in from outside he would inevitably have left
some traces round about the château, but there aren't any."

"Yes there are," Juve retorted. "First of all there is this piece of an
ordnance map which I found yesterday between the château and the
embankment." He took it from his pocket as he spoke. "It is an odd
coincidence that this scrap shows the neighbourhood of the château of
Beaulieu."

"That doesn't prove anything," said the magistrate. "To find a piece of
a map of our district in our district is the most natural thing
possible. Now if you were to discover the rest of this map in anybody's
possession, then----"

"You may rest assured that I shall try to do so with the least possible
delay," said Juve gently. "But this is not the only argument I have to
support my theory. This morning, when I was walking near the embankment,
I found some very suspicious footprints. It is true there are any number
of footprints near the end of the Verrières tunnel, where the navvies
are at work. But at the other end of the tunnel, where there is no
occasion for anyone to pass by, I found that the earth of the
embankment, which was crisp with the frost, had been disturbed, showing
that someone had clambered up the embankment; the tips of his shoes had
been driven into the earth, and I could see distinctly where his feet
had been placed; but unfortunately the soil there is so dry that the
footprints were too faint for me to hope to be able to identify the
maker of them. But the fact remains that someone did climb up the
embankment, someone who was making for the railway."

The magistrate did not seem to be impressed by Juve's discovery.

"And pray what conclusion do you think ought to be drawn from that?" he
enquired.

Juve sat down in an easy chair, threw back his head and closed his eyes
as if he were about to indulge in a long soliloquy, and began to express
his thoughts aloud.

"Suppose we were to combine the two hypotheses into one; to wit, that
the murderer was in the château prior to the accomplishment of the crime
and left the château directly it was accomplished. What should you say,
sir, of a criminal completing his deed, then hurrying over the couple of
miles that separate Beaulieu from the railway, and catching a passing
train, and on his way climbing the embankment at the spot where I found
the footprints I mentioned."

"I should say," the magistrate replied, "that you can't jump into a
moving train as you can into a passing tram, and further, that at night
none but express trains run between Brives and Cahors."

"All right," said Juve: "I will merely point out that owing to the work
on the line at present, all trains have stopped at the beginning of the
tunnel for the last two months. If the murderer had planned to escape in
that way he might very well have been aware of this regular stoppage."

The magistrates confidence was a little shaken by these new deductions
on the part of the detective, but he submitted yet another objection.

"We have not found any traces round about the château."

"Strictly speaking, no, we have not," Juve admitted; "but it is clear
that if the murderer walked on the grass, and he probably did so, he
walked on it during the night, that is to say, before the morning dew.
Now everybody knows that when the dew rises in the early morning, grass
that has been bent down by any passing man or animal, stands up again in
its original position, thereby destroying all traces; so if the murderer
did walk on the lawn when he was getting away, nobody could tell that he
had done so. Nevertheless, on the lawn in front of the window of the
room where the murder was committed I have observed, not exactly
footprints, but signs that the earth has been disturbed at that spot. I
imagine that if I were to jump out of a first floor window on to the
soft surface of a lawn, and wanted to efface the marks of my boots, I
should smooth the earth and the grass around them in just the same way
that the little piece of lawn I speak of seems to have been smoothed."

"I should like to have a look at that," said M. de Presles.

"Well, there's no difficulty about it," Juve replied. "Come along."

The two men hurried down the staircase and out of the house. When they
reached the patch of grass which the inspector said had been "made up,"
they crouched down and scrutinised it closely. Just by the side of the
grass, even overhanging it a little, a large rhubarb plant outspread its
thick, dentelated leaves almost parallel with the soil. Juve happened to
glance casually at the nearest leaf, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise and gratification.

"Gad, here's something interesting!" and he drew the magistrate's
attention to some little pilules of earth with which the plant was
peppered.

"What is that?" enquired M. de Presles.

"Earth," said Juve, who had swept the top of the leaf with the palm of
his hand; "ordinary earth, like the rest ten inches below, on the
grass."

"Well, what about it?" said the puzzled magistrate.

"Well," said Juve with a smile, "I imagine that ordinary earth, or any
kind of earth, has no power to move of its own volition, much less to
jump up ten inches into the air and settle on the top of a leaf, even a
rhubarb leaf! So I conclude that since this earth did not get here by
itself it was brought here. How? That is very simple! Somebody has
jumped on to the grass there, M. de Presles; he has removed the marks of
his feet by smoothing the earth with his hands; the earth soiled his
hands, and he rubbed one against the other quite mechanically; the earth
which was on his hands fell off in little balls on to the rhubarb leaf,
and remained there for us to discover. And so it is certain--this is one
proof more--that even if the murderer did not get in from outside, he
did at any rate take to flight after he had committed the crime."

"So it can't be Charles Rambert after all," said the magistrate.

"It 'ought to be' Charles Rambert!" was Juve's baffling reply.

The magistrate waxed irritable.

"My dear sir, your everlasting contradictions end by being rather
absurd! You have hardly finished building up one laborious theory before
you start knocking it down again. I fail to understand you."

Juve smiled at M. de Presles' sudden irritability, but quickly became
grave again.

"I am anxious not to be led away by any preconceived opinion. I put the
hypothesis that so and so is guilty, and examine all the arguments in
support of that theory; then I submit that the crime was committed by
somebody else, and proceed in the same way. My method certainly has the
objection that it confronts every argument with a diametrically opposite
one, but we are not concerned with establishing any one case in
preference to another--it is the truth, and nothing else, that we have
to discover."

"And that is tantamount to saying that in spite of the overwhelming
circumstantial evidence, and in spite of the fact that he has run away,
Charles Rambert is innocent?"

"Charles Rambert is the culprit, sir," Juve replied brightly. "If he
were not, whom else could we possibly suspect?"

The detective's placidity and his perpetual self-contradictions
exasperated M. de Presles. He held his tongue, and was silently
revolving the case in his mind when Juve made yet one more suggestion.

"There is one final hypothesis which I feel obliged to put before you.
Do you realise, sir, that this is a typical Fantômas crime?"

M. de Presles shrugged his shoulders as the detective pronounced this
half-mythical name.

"Upon my word, M. Juve, I should never have expected you to invoke
Fantômas! Why, Fantômas is the too obvious subterfuge, the cheapest
device for investing a case with mock honours. Between you and me, you
know perfectly well that Fantômas is merely a legal fiction--a lawyers'
joke. Fantômas has no existence in fact!"

Juve stopped in his stride. He paused a moment before replying; then
spoke in a restrained voice, but with an emphasis on his words that
always marked him when he spoke in all seriousness.

"You are wrong to laugh, sir; very wrong. You are a magistrate and I am
only a humble detective inspector, but you have three or four years'
experience, perhaps less, while I have fifteen years' work behind me. I
know that Fantômas does exist, and I do anything but laugh when I
suspect his intervention in a case."

M. de Presles could hardly conceal his surprise, and Juve went on:

"No one has ever said of me, sir, that I was a coward. I have looked
death in the eyes; I have often hunted and arrested criminals who would
not have had the least hesitation in doing away with me. There are whole
gangs of rascals who have vowed my death. All manner of horrible
revenges threaten me to-day. For all that I have the most complete
indifference! But when people talk to me of Fantômas, when I fancy that