M. Plantat rose abruptly.

“Ah,” said he, “you said nothing of this before.”

“Nor of several other things, either.  But I was before ignorant of some facts which I now know; and as I had reason to suppose that you were better informed than I, I was not sorry to avenge myself for a caution which seemed to me mysterious.”

“Well, you are avenged,” remarked the doctor, smiling.

“On the other side of the lawn,” continued M. Lecoq, “the count again took up the countess’s body.  But forgetting the effect of water when it spirts, or—­who knows?—­disliking to soil himself, instead of throwing her violently in the river, he put her down softly, with great precaution.  That’s not all.  He wished it to appear that there had been a terrible struggle.  What does he do?  Stirs up the sand with the end of his foot.  And he thinks that will deceive the police!”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Plantat, “exactly so—­I saw it.”

“Having got rid of the body, the count returns to the house.  Time presses, but he is still anxious to find the paper.  He hastens to take the last measures to assure his safety.  He smears his slippers and handkerchief with blood.  He throws his handkerchief and one of his slippers on the sward, and the other slipper into the river.  His haste explains the incomplete execution of his manoeuvres.  He hurries—­and commits blunder after blunder.  He does not reflect that his valet will explain about the empty bottles which he puts on the table.  He thinks he is turning wine into the five glasses—­ it is vinegar, which will prove that no one has drunk out of them.  He ascends, puts forward the hands of the clock, but forgets to put the hands and the striking bell in harmony.  He rumples up the bed, but he does it awkwardly—­and it is impossible to reconcile these three facts, the bed crumpled, the clock showing twenty minutes past three, and the countess dressed as if it were mid-day.  He adds as much as he can to the disorder of the room.  He smears a sheet with blood; also the bed-curtains and furniture.  Then he marks the door with the imprint of a bloody hand, too distinct and precise not to be done designedly.  Is there so far a circumstance or detail of the crime, which does not explain the count’s guilt?”

“There’s the hatchet,” answered M. Plantat, “found on the second story, the position of which seemed so strange to you.”

“I am coming to that.  There is one point in this mysterious affair, which, thanks to you, is now clear.  We know that Madame de Tremorel, known to her husband, possessed and concealed a paper or a letter, which he wanted, and which she obstinately refused to give up in spite of all his entreaties.  You have told us that the anxiety—­ perhaps the necessity—­to have this paper, was a powerful motive of the crime.  We will not be rash then in supposing that the importance of this paper was immense—­entirely beyond an ordinary