“Yes.  But please don’t worry,” I urged with false heartiness.  “I’ll explain when you come down.”  To cut the discussion short, I turned to go.

Once her door had closed, however, I halted at the staircase, retraced my steps, and, without hesitation, circled the gallery to the rooms of Mr. John Van Blarcom and his friends.  I had had enough of uncertainties; henceforth I meant to deal with facts.  It was barely possible that I was unjustly anathematizing these gentlemen, that, while they were peacefully sleeping, thieves had broken in below.

Two knocks, the first rather tentative, the second brisker, netting no response, I deliberately tried the knob and felt the door promptly yield to me; then, with equal deliberation, I dropped my hand into my pocket where my revolver lay.  If some one sprang at me and tried to crack my head or stab me,—­stabbing was popular hereabouts,—­I was in a state of armed preparedness.  But when I stepped inside I found an empty room, a bed in which no one had slept.

Grown brazen, I strode across to the inner door and opened it.  More emptiness greeted me; the four men had plainly taken French leave in their gray car.  It was strange that the hum of their departure had not roused me; they must, before starting the motor, have pushed their automobile from the courtyard and out of ear-shot down the street.

For a moment I stood in the deserted room, reflecting swiftly.  The situation was desperate; in another hour the inn would be stirring, and Miss Falconer, I felt sure, could not afford to be found here when that came to pass.  Murder investigations are searching things.  All strangers beneath this roof would be interrogated narrowly.  If any one had a secret,—­and she certainly had several,—­the chances were heavy that it would be dragged to light.

For some reason this prospect was unspeakably frightful to me.  Under its spur I hatched the craziest scheme that man ever thought of, and took steps which, as I look back at them, seem almost beyond belief.  I must get Miss Falconer off for Paris, I determined.  And since it was possible that the villagers would see us leaving, she must appear to go, as she had come, with her chauffeur.

I descended, forthwith, to the garage where the murdered man was lying, shook out and folded the rugs that had been scattered in the struggle, picked up the cushions, and replaced them in the car.  Then, borrowing a ruse from the enemy, I set the door wide open, and, puffing and panting, pushed the blue automobile into the courtyard, through the passage, and a considerable distance down the street.

What comes next, I ask no one to credit.  Retrospectively, I myself have doubted it.  It lives in my memory as a grisly nightmare rather than as a fact.  To be brief, I returned to the scene of the crime, shut out any possible audience by closing the door, and disrobed hastily.  Then I removed the leather costume of the victim, donned it, laced on his boots, which by good fortune were loose instead of tight, and, picking up his visored cap from the floor where it had fallen, stood forth to all seeming as genuine a member of the proletariate as ever wore goggles and held a wheel.