“I will, sir.”

“Was it customary here at the chateau, to bring up the wine before it was wanted?”

“No, sir; before each meal, I myself went down to the cellar for it.”

“Then no full bottles were ever kept in the dining-room?”

“Never.”

“But some of the wine might sometimes remain in draught?”

“No; the count permitted me to carry the dessert wine to the servants’ table.”

“And where were the empty bottles put?”

“I put them in this corner cupboard, and when they amounted to a certain number, I carried them down cellar.”

“When did you last do so?”

“Oh”—­Francois reflected—­“at least five or six days ago.”

“Good.  Now, what liqueurs did the count drink?”

“The count scarcely ever drank liqueurs.  If, by chance, he took a notion to have a small glass of eau-de-vie, he got it from the liqueur closet, there, over the stove.”

“There were no decanters of rum or cognac in any of the cupboards?”

“No.”

“Thanks; you may retire.”

As Francois was going out, M. Lecoq called him back.

“While we are about it, look in the bottom of the closet, and see if you find the right number of empty bottles.”

The valet obeyed, and looked into the closet.

“There isn’t one there.”

“Just so,” returned M. Lecoq.  “This time, show us your heels for good.”

As soon as Francois had shut the door, M. Lecoq turned to Plantat and asked: 

“What do you think now?”

“You were perfectly right.”

The detective then smelt successively each glass and bottle.

“Good again!  Another proof in aid of my guess.”

“What more?”

“It was not wine that was at the bottom of these glasses.  Among all the empty bottles put away in the bottom of that closet, there was one—­here it is—­which contained vinegar; and it was from this bottle that they turned what they thought to be wine into the glasses.”

Seizing a glass, he put it to M. Plantat’s nose, adding: 

“See for yourself.”

There was no disputing it; the vinegar was good, its odor of the strongest; the villains, in their haste, had left behind them an incontestable proof of their intention to mislead the officers of justice.  While they were capable of shrewd inventions, they did not have the art to perform them well.  All their oversights could, however, be accounted for by their sudden haste, caused by the occurrence of an unlooked-for incident.  “The floors of a house where a crime has just been committed,” said a famous detective, “burn the feet.”  M. Lecoq seemed exasperated, like a true artist, before the gross, pretentious, and ridiculous work of some green and bungling scholar.

“These are a parcel of vulgar ruffians, truly! able ones, certainly; but they don’t know their trade yet, the wretches.”