M. Lecoq was radiant, as if he were now certain of fulfilling what had seemed to him a very difficult task.

“Very well,” said he.  “Our inquest seems to be complete.  The history of the victims imparted to us by Monsieur Plantat gives us the key to all the events which have followed the unhappy Sauvresy’s death.  Thus, the hatred of this pair, who were in appearance so united, is explained; and it is also clear why Hector has ruined a charming young girl with a splendid dowry, instead of making her his wife.  There is nothing surprising in Tremorel’s casting aside his name and personality to reappear under another guise; he killed his wife because he was constrained to do so by the logic of events.  He could not fly while she was alive, and yet he could not continue to live at Valfeuillu.  And above all, the paper for which he searched with such desperation, when every moment was an affair of life and death to him, was none other than Sauvresy’s manuscript, his condemnation and the proof of his first crime.”

M. Lecoq talked eagerly, as if he had a personal animosity against the Count de Tremorel; such was his nature; and he always avowed laughingly that he could not help having a grudge against the criminals whom he pursued.  There was an account to settle between him and them; hence the ardor of his pursuit.  Perhaps it was a simple matter of instinct with him, like that which impels the hunting hound on the track of his game.

“It is clear enough now,” he went on, “that it was Mademoiselle Courtois who put an end to his hesitation and eternal delay.  His passion for her, irritated by obstacles, goaded him to delirium.  On learning her condition, he lost his head and forgot all prudence and reason.  He was wearied, too, of a punishment which began anew each morning; he saw himself lost, and his wife sacrificing herself for the malignant pleasure of sacrificing him.  Terrified, he took the resolution to commit this murder.”

Many of the circumstances which had established M. Lecoq’s conviction had escaped Dr. Gendron.

“What!” cried he, stupefied.  “Do you believe in Mademoiselle Laurence’s complicity?”

The detective earnestly protested by a gesture.

“No, Doctor, certainly not; heaven forbid that I should have such an idea.  Mademoiselle Courtois was and is still ignorant of this crime.  But she knew that Tremorel would abandon his wife for her.  This flight had been discussed, planned, and agreed upon between them; they made an appointment to meet at a certain place, on a certain day.”

“But this letter,” said the doctor.

M. Plantat could scarcely conceal his emotion whet Laurence was being talked about.

“This letter,” cried he, “which has plunged her family into the deepest grief, and which will perhaps kill poor Courtois, is only one more scene of the infamous drama which the count has planned.”

“Oh,” said the doctor, “is it possible?”