“I don’t see Guespin’s part in all this.”

“Nor I, very clearly,” answered M. Lecoq.  “And here I ought to confess to you not only the strength, but the weakness also, of the theory I have adopted.  By this method, which consists of reconstructing the crime before discovering the criminal, I can be neither right nor wrong by halves.  Either all my inferences are correct, or not one of them is.  It’s all, or nothing.  If I am right, Guespin has not been mixed up with this crime, at least directly; for there isn’t a single circumstance which suggests outside aid.  If, on the other hand, I am wrong—­”

M. Lecoq paused.  He seemed to have heard some unexpected noise in the garden.

“But I am not wrong.  I have still another charge against the count, of which I haven’t spoken, but which seems to be conclusive.”

“Oh,” cried the doctor, “what now?”

“Two certainties are better than one, and I always doubt.  When I was left alone a moment with Francois, the valet, I asked him if he knew exactly the number of the count’s shoes; he said yes, and took me to a closet where the shoes are kept.  A pair of boots, with green Russia leather tops, which Francois was sure the count had put on the previous morning, was missing.  I looked for them carefully everywhere, but could not find them.  Again, the blue cravat with white stripes which the count wore on the 8th, had also disappeared.”

“There,” cried M. Plantat, “that is indisputable proof that your supposition about the slippers and handkerchief was right.”

“I think that the facts are sufficiently established to enable us to go forward.  Let’s now consider the events which must have decided—­”

M. Lecoq again stopped, and seemed to be listening.  All of a sudden, without a word he jumped on the window-sill and from thence into the garden, with the bound of a cat which pounces on a mouse.  The noise of a fall, a stifled cry, an oath, were heard, and then a stamping as if a struggle were going on.  The doctor and M. Plantat hastened to the window.  Day was breaking, the trees shivered in the fresh wind of the early morning,—­objects were vaguely visible without distinct forms across the white mist which hangs, on summer nights, over the valley of the Seine.  In the middle of the lawn, at rapid intervals, they heard the blunt noise of a clinched fist striking a living body, and saw two men, or rather two phantoms, furiously swinging their arms.  Presently the two shapes formed but one, then they separated, again to unite; one of the two fell, rose at once, and fell again.

“Don’t disturb yourselves,” cried M. Lecoq’s voice.  “I’ve got the rogue.”

The shadow of the detective, which was upright, bent over, and the conflict was recommenced.  The shadow stretched on the ground defended itself with the dangerous strength of despair; his body formed a large brown spot in the middle of the lawn, and his legs, kicking furiously, convulsively stretched and contracted.  Then there was a moment when the lookers-on could not make out which was the detective.  They rose again and struggled; suddenly a cry of pain escaped, with a ferocious oath.