The excitement of the Count’s departure had died away and the steps of the other men on their way to the village had faded in the distance.  There was nothing now to be heard but the rustling of the leaves and the creaking of the boughs as the trees bent before the onrush of the wind.  Muller stood alone, with folded arms, in the middle of the large room, letting his sharp eyes wander about the circle of light thrown by the lamps.  He was glad to be alone —­for only when he was alone could his brain do its best work.  He took up one of the lamps and opened the door to the room in which, as far as could be known, the murder had been committed.  He walked in carefully and, setting the lamp on the desk, examined the articles lying about on it.  There was nothing of importance to be found there.  An open Bible and a sheet of paper with notes for the day’s sermon lay on top of the desk.  In the drawers, none of which were locked, were official papers, books, manuscripts of former sermons, and a few unimportant personal notes.

The flame of the lamp flickered in the breeze that came from the open window.  But Muller did not close the casement.  He wanted to leave everything just as he had found it until daylight.  When he saw that it was impossible to leave the lamp there he took it up again and left the room.

“What is the use of being impatient?” he said to himself.  “If I move about in this poor light I will be sure to ruin some possible clue.  For there must be some clue left here.  It is impossible for even the most practiced criminal not to leave some trace of his presence.”

The detective returned to the dining-room, locking the study door carefully behind him.  The maid and the coachman returned, bringing in an abundant supper, and Muller sat down to do justice to the many good things on the tray.  When the maid returned to take away the dishes she inquired whether she should put the guest chamber in order for the detective.  He told her not to go to any trouble for his sake, that he would sleep in the bed in the neighbouring room.

“You going to sleep in there?” said the girl, horrified.

“Yes, my child, and I think I will sleep well to-night.  I feel very tired.”  Liska carried the things out, shaking her head in surprise at this thin little man who did not seem to know what it was to be afraid.  Half an hour later the rectory was in darkness.  Before he retired, Muller had made a careful examination of the pastor’s bedroom.  Nothing was disturbed anywhere, and it was evident that the priest had not made any preparations for the night, but was still at work at his desk in the study when death overtook him.  When he came to this conclusion, the detective went to bed and soon fell asleep.

In his little hut near the asylum gates, shepherd Janci slept as sound as usual.  But he was dreaming and he spoke in his sleep.  There was no one to hear him, for his faithful Margit was snoring loudly.  Snatches of sentences and broken words came from Janci’s lips:  “The hand—­the big hand—­I see it—­at his throat—­the face—­the yellow face—­it laughs—­”