Muller realised that this was the attendant Gyuri, and he looked at him attentively.  He was soon clear in his own mind that this remarkably handsome man did not please him, in fact awoke in him a feeling of repulsion.  The attendant’s quiet, almost cat-like movements were in strange contrast to the massivity of his superb frame, and his large round eyes, shaped for open, honest glances, were shifty and cunning.  They seemed to be asking “Are you trying to discover anything about me?” coupled with a threat.  “For your own sake you had better not do it.”

When the young man had left the room Muller rose hastily and walked up and down several times.  His face was flushed and his lips tight set.  Suddenly he exclaimed:  “I do not like this Gyuri.”

Dr. Orszay looked up astonished.  “There are many others who do not like him—­most of his fellow-warders for instance, and all of the patients.  I think there must be something in the contrast of such quiet movements with such a big body that gets on people’s nerves.  But consider, Mr. Muller, that the man’s work would naturally make him a little different from other people.  I have known Gyuri for five years as a faithful and unassuming servant, always willing and ready for any duty, however difficult or dangerous.  He has but one fault—­if I may call it such—­that is that he has a mistress who is known to be mercenary and hard-hearted.  She lives in a neighbouring village.”

“For five years, you say?  And how long has Cardillac been here?”

“Cardillac?  He has been here for almost three years.”

“For almost three years, and is it not almost three years—­” Muller interrupted himself.  “Are we quite alone?  Is no one listening?” The doctor nodded, greatly surprised, and the detective continued almost in a whisper, “and it is just about three years now that there have been committed, at intervals, three terrible crimes notable from the cleverness with which they were carried out, and from the utter impossibility, apparently, of discovering the perpetrator.”

Orszay sprang up.  His face flushed and then grew livid, and he put his hand to his forehead.  Then he forced a smile and said in a voice that trembled in spite of himself:  “Mr. Muller, your imagination is wonderful.  And which of these two do you think it is that has committed these crimes—­the perpetrator of which you have come here to find?”

“I will tell you that later.  I must speak to No. 302 first, and I must speak to him in the presence of yourself and Gyuri.”

The detective’s deep gravity was contagious.  Dr. Orszay had sufficiently controlled himself to remember what he had heard in former days, and just now recently from the district judge about this man’s marvelous deeds.  He realised that when Muller said a thing, no matter how extravagant it might sound, it was worth taking seriously.  This realisation brought great uneasiness and grief to the doctor’s heart, for he had grown fond of both of the men on whom terrible suspicion was cast by such an authority.