“And in a house full of weapons,” added Dr. Gendron; “for the count’s cabinet is full of guns, swords and hunting knives; it’s a perfect arsenal.”

“Alas!” sighed M. Courtois, “we know of worse catastrophes.  There is not a week that the papers don’t—­”

He stopped, chagrined, for nobody was listening to him.  Plantat claimed the general attention, and continued: 

“The confusion in the house seems to you surprising; well now, I’m surprised that it is not worse than it is.  I am, so to speak, an old man; I haven’t the energy of a young man of thirty-five; yet it seems to me that if assassins should get into my house, when I was there, and up, it would go hard with them.  I don’t know what I would do; probably I should be killed; but surely I would give the alarm.  I would defend myself, and cry out, and open the windows, and set the house afire.”

“Let us add,” insisted the doctor, “that it is not easy to surprise a man who is awake.  There is always an unexpected noise which puts one on his guard.  Perhaps it is a creaking door, or a cracking stair.  However cautious the murderer, he does not surprise his victim.”

“They may have used fire-arms;” struck in the worthy mayor, “that has been done.  You are quietly sitting in your chamber; it is summer, and your windows are open; you are chatting with your wife, and sipping a cup of tea; outside, the assassins are supplied with a short ladder; one ascends to a level with the window, sights you at his ease, presses the trigger, the bullet speeds—­”

“And,” continued the doctor, “the whole neighborhood, aroused by it, hastens to the spot.”

“Permit me, pardon, permit me,” said M. Courtois, testily, “that would be so in a populous town.  Here, in the midst of a vast park, no.  Think, doctor, of the isolation of this house.  The nearest neighbor is a long way off, and between there are many large trees, intercepting the sound.  Let us test it by experience.  I will fire a pistol in this room, and I’ll wager that you will not hear the echo in the road.”

“In the daytime, perhaps, but not in the night.”

“Well,” said M. Domini, who had been reflecting while M. Courtois was talking, “if against all hope, Guespin does not decide to speak to-night, or to-morrow, the count’s body will afford us a key to the mystery.”

During this discussion, M. Lecoq had continued his investigations, lifting the furniture, studying the fractures, examining the smallest pieces, as if they might betray the truth.  Now and then, he took out an instrument-case, from which he produced a shank, which he introduced and turned in the locks.  He found several keys on the carpet, and on a rack, a towel, which he carefully put one side, as if he deemed it important.  He came and went from the bedroom to the count’s cabinet, without losing a word that was said; noting in his memory, not so much the phrases uttered, as the diverse accents and