Lys sat up, murmuring half-sleepy, half-anxious questions.

“I don’t know,” I answered.  “I am going out to see what it means.”

“It is like the day they came to arrest you,” Lys said, giving me a troubled look.  But I kissed her and laughed at her until she smiled too.  Then I flung on coat and cap and hurried down the stairs.

The first person I saw standing in the road was the Brigadier Durand.

“Hello!” said I, “have you come to arrest me again?  What the devil is all this fuss about, anyway?”

“We were telegraphed for an hour ago,” said Durand briskly, “and for a sufficient reason, I think.  Look there, Monsieur Darrel!”

He pointed to the ground almost under my feet.

“Good heavens!” I cried, “where did that puddle of blood come from?”

“That’s what I want to know, Monsieur Darrel.  Max Fortin found it at daybreak.  See, it’s splashed all over the grass, too.  A trail of it leads into your garden, across the flower beds to your very window, the one that opens from the morning room.  There is another trail leading from this spot across the road to the cliffs, then to the gravel pit, and thence across the moor to the forest of Kerselec.  We are going to mount in a minute and search the bosquets.  Will you join us?  Bon Dieu! but the fellow bled like an ox.  Max Fortin says it’s human blood, or I should not have believed it.”

The little chemist of Quimperle came up at that moment, rubbing his glasses with a colored handkerchief.

“Yes, it is human blood,” he said, “but one thing puzzles me:  the corpuscles are yellow.  I never saw any human blood before with yellow corpuscles.  But your English Doctor Thompson asserts that he has——­”

“Well, it’s human blood, anyway—­isn’t it?” insisted Durand, impatiently.

“Ye-es,” admitted Max Fortin.

“Then it’s my business to trail it,” said the big gendarme, and he called his men and gave the order to mount.

“Did you hear anything last night?” asked Durand of me.

“I heard the rain.  I wonder the rain did not wash away these traces.”

“They must have come after the rain ceased.  See this thick splash, how it lies over and weighs down the wet grass blades.  Pah!”

It was a heavy, evil-looking clot, and I stepped back from it, my throat closing in disgust.

“My theory,” said the brigadier, “is this:  Some of those Biribi fishermen, probably the Icelanders, got an extra glass of cognac into their hides and quarreled on the road.  Some of them were slashed, and staggered to your house.  But there is only one trail, and yet—­and yet, how could all that blood come from only one person?  Well, the wounded man, let us say, staggered first to your house and then back here, and he wandered off, drunk and dying, God knows where.  That’s my theory.”

“A very good one,” said I calmly.  “And you are going to trail him?”