“I am firmly of Monsieur Plantat’s opinion,” said the detective.  “Last evening we had the same suspicion at the same moment at the mayor’s.  I read and re-read her letter, and could have sworn that it did not emanate from herself.  The count gave her a rough draft from which she copied it.  We mustn’t deceive ourselves; this letter was meditated, pondered on, and composed at leisure.  Those were not the expressions of an unhappy young girl of twenty who was going to kill herself to escape dishonor.”

“Perhaps you are right,” remarked the doctor visibly moved.  “But how can you imagine that Tremorel succeeded in persuading her to do this wretched act?”

“How?  See here, Doctor, I am not much experienced in such things, having seldom had occasion to study the characters of well-brought-up young girls; yet it seems to me very simple.  Mademoiselle Courtois saw the time coming when her disgrace would be public, and so prepared for it, and was even ready to die if necessary.”

M. Plantat shuddered; a conversation which he had had with Laurence occurred to him.  She had asked him, he remembered, about certain poisonous plants which he was cultivating, and had been anxious to know how the poisonous juices could be extracted from them.

“Yes,” said he, “she has thought of dying.”

“Well,” resumed the detective, “the count took her in one of the moods when these sad thoughts haunted the poor girl, and was easily able to complete his work of ruin.  She undoubtedly told him that she preferred death to shame, and he proved to her that, being in the condition in which she was, she had no right to kill herself.  He said that he was very unhappy; and that not being free, he could not repair his fault; but he offered to sacrifice his life for her.  What should she do to save both of them?  Abandon her parents, make them believe that she had committed suicide, while he, on his side, would desert his house and his wife.  Doubtless she resisted for awhile; but she finally consented to everything; she fled, and copied and posted the infamous letter dictated by her lover.”

The doctor was convinced.

“Yes,” he muttered, “those are doubtless the means he employed.”

“But what an idiot he was,” resumed M. Lecoq, “not to perceive that the strange coincidence between his disappearance and Laurence’s suicide would be remarked!  He said to himself, ’Probably people will think that I, as well as my wife, have been murdered; and the law, having its victim in Guespin, will not look for any other.’”

M. Plantat made a gesture of impotent rage.

“Ah,” cried he, “and we know not where the wretch has hid himself and Laurence.”

The detective took him by the arm and pressed it.

“Reassure yourself,” said he, coolly.  “We’ll find him, or my name’s not Lecoq; and to be honest, I must say that our task does not seem to me a difficult one.”