absorbed in her grief. M. Desmalions kept his eyes fixed on her.
The sergeant returned, carrying a very large box containing a number of jewel-cases and loose ornaments.
M. Desmalions found the necklace, examined it, and realized, in fact, that the stones did not resemble the turquoise and that none of them was missing. But, on separating two jewel cases in order to take out a tiara which also contained blue stones, he made a gesture of surprise.
"What are these two keys?" he asked, pointing to two keys identical in shape and size with those which opened the lock and the bolt of the garden door.
Mme. Fauville remained very calm. Not a muscle of her face moved. Nothing pointed to the least perturbation on account of this discovery. She merely said:
"I don't know. They have been there a long time."
"Mazeroux," said M. Desmalions, "try them on that door."
Mazeroux did so. The door opened.
"Yes," said Mme. Fauville. "I remember now, my husband gave them to me.
They were duplicates of his own keys—"
The words were uttered in the most natural tone and as though the speaker did not even suspect the terrible charge that was forming against her.
And nothing was more agonizing than this tranquillity. Was it a sign of absolute innocence, or the infernal craft of a criminal whom nothing is able to stir? Did she realize nothing of the tragedy which was taking place and of which she was the unconscious heroine? Or did she guess the terrible accusation which was gradually closing in upon her on every side and which threatened her with the most awful danger? But, in that case, how could she have been guilty of the extraordinary blunder of keeping those two keys?
A series of questions suggested itself to the minds of all those present.
The Prefect of Police put them as follows:
"You were out, Madame, were you not, when the murders were committed?"
"Yes."
"You were at the opera?"
"Yes; and I went on to a party at the house of one of my friends, Mme. d'Ersingen."
"Did your chauffeur drive you?"
"To the opera, yes. But I sent him back to his garage; and he came to fetch me at the party."
"I see," said M. Desmalions. "But how did you go from the opera to Mme. d'Ersingen's?"
For the first time, Mme. Fauville seemed to understand that she was the victim of a regular cross-examination; and her look and attitude betrayed a certain uneasiness. She replied:
"I took a motor cab."
"In the street?"
"On the Place de l'Opéra."
"At twelve o'clock, therefore?"
"No, at half-past eleven: I left before the opera was over."
"You were in a hurry to get to your friend's?"
"Yes … or rather—"
She stopped; her cheeks were scarlet; her lips and chin trembled; and she asked:
"Why do you ask me all these questions?"
"They are necessary, Madame. They may throw a light on what we want to know. I beg you, therefore, to answer them. At what time did you reach your friend's house?"
"I hardly know. I did not notice the time."
"Did you go straight there?"
"Almost."
"How do you mean, almost?"
"I had a little headache and told the driver to go up the Champs Elysées and the Avenue du Bois—very slowly—and then down the Champs Elysées again—"
She was becoming more and more embarrassed. Her voice grew indistinct.
She lowered her head and was silent.
Certainly her silence contained no confession, and there was nothing entitling any one to believe that her dejection was other than a consequence of her grief. But yet she seemed so weary as to give the impression that, feeling herself lost, she was giving up the fight. And it was almost a feeling of pity that was entertained for this woman against whom all the circumstances seemed to be conspiring, and who defended herself so badly that her cross-examiner hesitated to press her yet further.
M. Desmalions, in fact, wore an irresolute air, as if the victory had been too easy, and as if he had some scruple about pursuing it.
Mechanically he observed Perenna, who passed him a slip of paper, saying:
"Mme. d'Ersingen's telephone number."
M. Desmalions murmured:
"Yes, true, they may know—"
And, taking down the receiver, he asked for number 325.04. He was connected at once and continued:
"Who is that speaking?… The butler? Ah! Is Mme. d'Ersingen at home?… No?… Or Monsieur?… Not he, either?… Never mind, you can tell me what I want to know. I am M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, and I need certain information. At what time did Mme. Fauville come last night?… What do you say?… Are you sure?… At two o'clock in the morning?… Not before?… And she went away?… In ten minutes time?… Good … But you're certain you are not mistaken about the time when she arrived? I must know this positively: it is most important…. You say it was two o'clock in the morning? Two o'clock in the morning?… Very well…. Thank you."
When M. Desmalions turned round, he saw Mme. Fauville standing beside him and looking at him with an expression of mad anguish. And one and the same idea occurred to the mind of all the onlookers. They were in the presence either of an absolutely innocent woman or else of an exceptional actress whose face lent itself to the most perfect simulation of innocence.
"What do you want?" she stammered. "What does this mean? Explain yourself!"
Then M. Desmalions asked simply:
"What were you doing last night between half-past eleven in the evening and two o'clock in the morning?"
It was a terrifying question at the stage which the examination had reached, a fatal question implying:
"If you cannot give us an exact and strict account of the way in which you employed your time while the crime was being committed, we have the right to conclude that you were not alien to the murder of your husband and stepson—"
She understood it in this sense and staggered on her feet, moaning:
"It's horrible!… horrible!"
The Prefect repeated:
"What were you doing? The question must be quite easy to answer."
"Oh," she cried, in the same piteous tone, "how can you believe!… Oh, no, no, it's not possible! How can you believe!"
"I believe nothing
