“Enough!” interrupted M. Domini, sternly.  “Do you know Guespin?”

This name suddenly subdued the careless insolence of the marauder; his little gray eyes experienced a singular restlessness.

“Certainly,” he answered in an embarrassed tone, “we have often made a party at cards, you understand, while sipping our ‘gloria.’"* [* Coffee and brandy.]

The man’s inquietude struck the four who heard him.  Plantat, especially, betrayed profound surprise.  The old vagabond was too shrewd not to perceive the effect which he produced.

“Faith, so much the worse!” cried he:  “I’ll tell you everything.  Every man for himself, isn’t it?  If Guespin has done the deed, it will not blacken him any more, nor make him any the worse off.  I know him, simply because he used to sell me the grapes and strawberries from the count’s conservatories; I suppose he stole them; we divided the money, and I left.”

Plantat could not refrain from an exclamation of satisfaction, as if to say, “Good luck!  I knew it well enough!”

When he said he would be sent to prison, Bertaud was not wrong.  The judge ordered his arrest.

It was now Philippe’s turn.

The poor fellow was in a pitiable state; he was crying bitterly.

“To accuse me of such a crime, me!” he kept repeating.

On being questioned he told the pure and simple truth, excusing himself, however, for having dared to penetrate into the park.  When he was asked at what hour his father reached home, he said he knew nothing about it; he had gone to bed about nine, and had not awoke until morning.  He knew Guespin, from having seen him at his father’s several times.  He knew that the old man had some transactions with the gardener, but he was ignorant as to what they were.  He had never spoken four times to Guespin.  The judge ordered Philippe to be set at liberty, not that he was wholly convinced of his innocence, but because if the crime had been committed by several persons, it was well to have one of them free; he could be watched, and he would betray the whereabouts of the rest.

Meanwhile the count’s body was nowhere to be found.  The park had been rigidly searched, but in vain.  The mayor suggested that he had been thrown into the river, which was also M. Domini’s opinion; and some fishermen were sent to drag the Seine, commencing their search a little above the place where the countess was found.

It was then nearly three o’clock.  M. Plantat remarked that probably no one had eaten anything during the day.  Would it not be wise to take something, he suggested, if the investigations were to be pursued till night?  This appeal to the trivial necessities of our frail humanity highly displeased the worthy mayor; but the rest readily assented to the suggestion, and M. Courtois, though not in the least hungry, followed the general example.  Around the table which was yet wet with the wine spilt by the assassins, the judge, M. Plantat, the mayor, and the doctor sat down, and partook of an improvised collation.