“Yes, sir, they are all mine.”

“Well, take this foil.  Who broke it?”

“I, sir, in fencing with M. de Courtivois, who can bear witness to it.”

“He will be heard.  Where is the broken end?”

“I do not know.  You must ask Lubin, my valet.”

“Exactly.  He declares that he has hunted for it, and cannot find it.  I must tell you that the victim received the fatal blow from the sharpened end of a broken foil.  This piece of stuff, on which the assassin wiped his weapon, is a proof of what I state.”

“I beseech you, sir, to order a most minute search to be made.  It is impossible that the other half of the foil is not to be found.”

“Orders shall be given to that effect.  Look, here is the exact imprint of the murderer’s foot traced on this sheet of paper.  I will place one of your boots upon it and the sole, as you perceive, fits the tracing with the utmost precision.  This plaster was poured into the hollow left by the heel:  you observe that it is, in all respects, similar in shape to the heels of your own boots.  I perceive, too, the mark of a peg, which appears in both.”

Albert followed with marked anxiety every movement of the magistrate.  It was plain that he was struggling against a growing terror.  Was he attacked by that fright which overpowers the guilty when they see themselves on the point of being confounded.  To all the magistrate’s remarks, he answered in a low voice,—­“It is true—­perfectly true.”

“That is so,” continued M. Daburon; “yet listen further, before attempting to defend yourself.  The criminal had an umbrella.  The end of this umbrella sank in the clayey soil; the round of wood which is placed at the end of the silk, was found moulded in the clay.  Look at this clod of clay, raised with the utmost care; and now look at your umbrella.  Compare the rounds.  Are they alike, or not?”

“These things, sir,” attempted Albert, “are manufactured in large quantities.”

“Well, we will pass over that proof.  Look at this cigar end, found on the scene of the crime, and tell me of what brand it is, and how it was smoked.”

“It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder.”

“Like these?” persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigars and the amber and meerschaum-holders found in the viscount’s library.

“Yes!” murmured Albert, “it is a fatality—­a strange coincidence.”

“Patience, that is nothing, as yet.  The assassin wore gloves.  The victim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some pieces of kid remained in her nails.  These have been preserved, and are here.  They are of a lavender colour, are they not?  Now, here are the gloves which you wore on Tuesday.  They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed.  Compare these pieces of kid with your own gloves.  Do they not correspond?  Are they not of the same colour, the same skin?”