“Now,” he resumed, “hear me.  It is ten o’clock at night.  No noise without, the road deserted, the village lights extinguished, the chateau servants away at Paris.  The count and countess are alone at Valfeuillu.

“They have gone to their bedroom.

“The countess has seated herself at the table where tea has been served.  The count, as he talks with her, paces up and down the chamber.

“Madame de Tremorel has no ill presentiment; her husband, the past few days, has been more amiable, more attentive than ever.  She mistrusts nothing, and so the count can approach her from behind, without her thinking of turning her head.

“When she hears him coming up softly, she imagines that he is going to surprise her with a kiss.  He, meanwhile, armed with a long dagger, stands beside his wife.  He knows where to strike that the wound may be mortal.  He chooses the place at a glance; takes aim; strikes a terrible blow—­so terrible that the handle of the dagger imprints itself on both sides of the wound.  The countess falls without a sound, bruising her forehead on the edge of the table, which is overturned.  Is not the position of the terrible wound below the left shoulder thus explained—­a wound almost vertical, its direction being from right to left?”

The doctor made a motion of assent.

“And who, besides a woman’s lover or her husband is admitted to her chamber, or can approach her when she is seated without her turning round?”

“That’s clear,” muttered M. Plantat.

“The countess is now dead,” pursued M. Lecoq.  “The assassin’s first emotion is one of triumph.  He is at last rid of her who was his wife, whom he hated enough to murder her, and to change his happy, splendid, envied existence for a frightful life, henceforth without country, friend, or refuge, proscribed by all nations, tracked by all the police, punishable by the laws of all the world!  His second thought is of this letter or paper, this object of small size which he knows to be in his wife’s keeping, which he has demanded a hundred times, which she would not give up to him, and which he must have.”

“Add,” interrupted M. Plantat, “that this paper was one of the motives of the crime.”

“The count thinks he knows where it is.  He imagines that he can put his hand on it at once.  He is mistaken.  He looks into all the drawers and bureaus used by his wife—­and finds nothing.  He searches every corner, he lifts up the shelves, overturns everything in the chamber—­nothing.  An idea strikes him.  Is this letter under the mantel-shelf?  By a turn of the arm he lifts it—­ down the clock tumbles and stops.  It is not yet half-past ten.”

“Yes,” murmured the doctor, “the clock betrays that.”