This conversation took place shortly before midnight; some six hours later all Orskaia was ringing with the news that Marthe Popenkoff’s three children had all been found dead in their beds, their faces and bodies lacerated in exactly the same manner as their mother’s.  There seemed to be no doubt now that Marthe had been murdered, and the populace cried shame on the police; for the assassin was still at large.  They agreed that the murderer could be no other than Peter Popenkoff, and the editor of the local paper repeating these statements, Peter Popenkoff was duly charged with the crimes, and arrested.  He was pronounced guilty by all excepting M. Hersant; and of course M. Hersant thought him guilty, too; only he liked to think differently from anyone else.

“I don’t want to commit myself,” was all they could get out of him.  “I may have something to say later on.”

M. Durant laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“It, undoubtedly, is Peter Popenkoff,” he observed.  “I had an idea that he was the culprit all along.”

But a day or two later, Peter Popenkoff was found dead in prison with the skin on his face and hands all torn to shreds.

“There!  Didn’t we say so?” cried the inconsequent mob.  “Peter Popenkoff was innocent.  One of the police themselves is the murderer.”

“Come, you must acknowledge that we are on the right track now—­it is one of the police,” M. Durant said to his friend.

But M. Hersant only shook his head.

“I acknowledge nothing of the sort,” he said.  “Come with me to the mill-house to-night, and I will then tell you what I think.”

To this proposition M. Durant willingly agreed, and, accompanied by his friend and the village priest, set off.  On their arrival, M. Hersant produced a big compass, and on the earth floor of the mill-house drew a large circle, in which he made with white chalk various signs and symbols.  He then sat in the middle of it, and bade his two companions stand in the doorway and watch.  The night grew darker and darker, and presently into the air stole a something that all three men at once realized was supernatural.  M. Hersant coughed nervously, the priest crossed himself, and M. Durant called out, “This is getting ridiculous.  These mediaeval proceedings are too absurd.  Let us go home.”  The next moment, from the far distance, a church clock began to strike.  It was midnight, and an impressive silence fell on the trio.  Then there came a noise like the flutterings of wings, a loud, blood-curdling scream, half human and half animal, and a huge black owl, whirling down from the roof of the building, perched in the circle directly in front of M. Hersant.

“Pray, Father!  Pray quickly,” M. Hersant whispered.  “Pray for the dead, and sprinkle the circle with holy water.”

The priest, as well as his trembling limbs would allow, obeyed; whereupon the bird instantly vanished.

“For Heaven’s sake,” M. Durant gasped, “tell us what it all means.”