“Par le Dieu!  How I chat on, while time flies!”

“And Guespin is in prison,” remarked the doctor.

“We will have him out,” answered the detective, “if, indeed, he is innocent; for this time I have mastered the mystery, my romance, if you wish, and without any gap.  There is, however, one fact of the utmost importance, that I by myself cannot explain.”

“What?” asked M. Plantat.

“Is it possible that Monsieur de Tremorel had a very great interest in finding something—­a deed, a letter, a paper of some sort—­ something of a small size, secreted in his own house?”

“Yes—­that is possible,” returned the justice of the peace.

“But I must know for certain.”

M. Plantat reflected a moment.

“Well then,” he went on, “I am sure, perfectly sure, that if Madame de Tremorel had died suddenly, the count would have ransacked the house to find a certain paper, which he knew to be in his wife’s possession, and which I myself have had in my hands.”

“Then,” said M. Lecoq, “there’s the drama complete.  On reaching Valfeuillu, I, like you, was struck with the frightful disorder of the rooms.  Like you, I thought at first that this disorder was the result of design.  I was wrong; a more careful scrutiny has convinced me of it.  The assassin, it is true, threw everything into disorder, broke the furniture, hacked the chairs in order to make us think that some furious villains had been there.  But amid these acts of premeditated violence I have followed up the involuntary traces of an exact, minute, and I may say patient search.  Everything seemed turned topsy-turvy by chance; articles were broken open with the hatchet, which might have been opened with the hands; drawers had been forced which were not shut, and the keys of which were in the locks.  Was this folly?  No.  For really no corner or crevice where a letter might be hid has been neglected.  The table and bureau-drawers had been thrown here and there, but the narrow spaces between the drawers had been examined—­I saw proofs of it, for I found the imprints of fingers on the dust which lay in these spaces.  The books had been thrown pell-mell upon the floor, but every one of them had been handled, and some of them with such violence that the bindings were torn off.  We found the mantel-shelves in their places, but every one had been lifted up.  The chairs were not hacked with a sword, for the mere purpose of ripping the cloth—­the seats were thus examined.  My conviction of the certainty that there had been a most desperate search, at first roused my suspicions.  I said to myself, ’The villains have been looking for the money which was concealed; therefore they did not belong to the household.’”

“But,” observed the doctor, “they might belong to the house, and yet not know the money was hidden; for Guespin—­”

“Permit me,” interrupted M. Lecoq, “I will explain myself.  On the other hand, I found indications that the assassin must have been closely connected with Madame de Tremorel—­her lover, or her husband.  These were the ideas that then struck me.”