and said:
“But considering everything, especially the absence of any traces of violence, combined with her entire disappearance, I have come to another conclusion. Victoire is the key to the mystery. She is the accomplice. She never slept in her bed. She unmade it to put us off the scent. That, at any rate, is something gained, to have found the accomplice. We shall have this good news, at least, to tell M, Gournay-Martin on his arrival.”
“Do you really think that she’s the accomplice?” said the Duke.
“I’m dead sure of it,” said M. Formery. “We will go up to her room and make another thorough examination of it.”
Guerchard’s head popped up above the window-sill:
“My dear M. Formery,” he said, “I beg that you will not take the trouble.”
M. Formery’s mouth opened: “What! You, Guerchard?” he stammered.
“Myself,” said Guerchard; and he came to the top of the ladder and slipped lightly over the window-sill into the room.
He shook hands with M. Formery and nodded to the inspector. Then he looked at the Duke with an air of inquiry.
“Let me introduce you,” said M. Formery. “Chief-Inspector Guerchard, head of the Detective Department—the Duke of Charmerace.”
The Duke shook hands with Guerchard, saying, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, M. Guerchard. I’ve been expecting your coming with the greatest interest. Indeed it was I who begged the officials at the Prefecture of Police to put this case in your hands. I insisted on it.”
“What were you doing on that ladder?” said M. Formery, giving Guerchard no time to reply to the Duke.
“I was listening,” said Guerchard simply—“listening. I like to hear people talk when I’m engaged on a case. It’s a distraction—and it helps. I really must congratulate you, my dear M. Formery, on the admirable manner in which you have conducted this inquiry.”
M. Formery bowed, and regarded him with a touch of suspicion.
“There are one or two minor points on which we do not agree, but on the whole your method has been admirable,” said Guerchard.
“Well, about Victoire,” said M. Formery. “You’re quite sure that an examination, a more thorough examination, of her room, is unnecessary?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Guerchard. “I have just looked at it myself.”
The door opened, and in came Bonavent, one of the detectives who had come earlier from the Prefecture. In his hand he carried a scrap of cloth.
He saluted Guerchard, and said to M. Formery, “I have just found this scrap of cloth on the edge of the well at the bottom of the garden. The concierge’s wife tells me that it has been torn from Victoire’s dress.”
“I feared it,” said M. Formery, taking the scrap of cloth from Mm. “I feared foul play. We must go to the well at once, send some one down it, or have it dragged.”
He was moving hastily to the door, when Guerchard said, in his husky, gentle voice, “I don’t think there is any need to look for Victoire in the well.”
“But this scrap of cloth,” said M. Formery, holding it out to him.
“Yes, yes, that scrap of cloth,” said Guerchard. And, turning to the Duke, he added, “Do you know if there’s a dog or cat in the house, your Grace? I suppose that, as the fiance of Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin, you are familiar with the house?”
“What on earth—” said M. Formery.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Guerchard. “But this is important—very important.”
“Yes, there is a cat,” said the Duke. “I’ve seen a cat at the door of the concierge’s rooms.”
“It must have been that cat which took this scrap of cloth to the edge of the well,” said Guerchard gravely.
“This is ridiculous—preposterous!” cried M. Formery, beginning to flush. “Here we’re dealing with a most serious crime—a murder—the murder of Victoire—and you talk about cats!”
“Victoire has not been murdered,” said Guerchard; and his husky voice was gentler than ever, only just audible.
“But we don’t know that—we know nothing of the kind,” said M. Formery.
“I do,” said Guerchard.
“You?” said M. Formery.
“Yes,” said Guerchard.
“Then how do you explain her disappearance?”
“If she had disappeared I shouldn’t explain it,” said Guerchard.
“But since she has disappeared?” cried M. Formery, in a tone of exasperation.
“She hasn’t,” said Guerchard.
“You know nothing about it!” cried M. Formery, losing his temper.
“Yes, I do,” said Guerchard, with the same gentleness.
“Come, do you mean to say that you know where she is?” cried M. Formery.
“Certainly,” said Guerchard.
“Do you mean to tell us straight out that you’ve seen her?” cried M. Formery.
“Oh, yes; I’ve seen her,” said Guerchard.
“You’ve seen her—when?” cried M. Formery.
Guerchard paused to consider. Then he said gently:
“It must have been between four and five minutes ago.”
“But hang it all, you haven’t been out of this room!” cried M. Formery.
“No, I haven’t,” said Guerchard.
“And you’ve seen her?” cried M. Formery.
“Yes,” said Guerchard, raising his voice a little.
“Well, why the devil don’t you tell us where she is? Tell us!” cried M. Formery, purple with exasperation.
“But you won’t let me get a word out of my mouth,” protested Guerchard with aggravating gentleness.
“Well, speak!” cried M. Formery; and he sank gasping on to a chair.
“Ah, well, she’s here,” said Guerchard.
“Here! How did she get here?” said M. Formery.
“On a mattress,” said Guerchard.
M. Formery sat upright, almost beside himself, glaring furiously at Guerchard:
“What
