“Your name?” demanded the investigating magistrate.

“Marie Pierre Lerouge.”

“Are you, then, related to Claudine Lerouge?”

“I am her husband, sir.”

What, the husband of the victim alive, and the police ignorant of his existence!

Thus thought M. Daburon.

What, then, does this wonderful progress in invention accomplish?

To-day, precisely as twenty years ago, when Justice is in doubt, it requires the same inordinate loss of time and money to obtain the slightest information.

On Friday, they had written to inquire about Claudine’s past life; it was now Monday, and no reply had arrived.

And yet photography was in existence, and the electric telegraph.  They had at their service a thousand means, formerly unknown; and they made no use of them.

“Every one,” said the magistrate, “believed her a widow.  She herself pretended to be one.”

“Yes, for in that way she partly excused her conduct.  Besides, it was an arrangement between ourselves.  I had told her that I would have nothing more to do with her.”

“Indeed?  Well, you know that she is dead, victim of an odious crime?”

“The detective who brought me here told me of it, sir,” replied the sailor, his face darkening.  “She was a wretch!” he added in a hollow voice.

“How?  You, her husband, accuse her?”

“I have but too good reason to do so, sir.  Ah, my dead father, who foresaw it all at the time, warned me!  I laughed, when he said, ’Take care, or she will dishonour us all.’  He was right.  Through her, I have been hunted down by the police, just like some skulking thief.  Everywhere that they inquired after me with their warrant, people must have said ‘Ah, ha, he has then committed some crime!’ And here I am before a magistrate!  Ah, sir, what a disgrace!  The Lerouges have been honest people, from father to son, ever since the world began.  Inquire of all who have ever had dealings with me, they will tell you, ‘Lerouge’s word is as good as another man’s writing.’  Yes, she was a wicked woman; and I have often told her that she would come to a bad end.”

“You told her that?”

“More than a hundred times, sir.”

“Why?  Come, my friend, do not be uneasy, your honour is not at stake here, no one questions it.  When did you warn her so wisely?”

“Ah, a long time ago, sir,” replied the sailor, “the first time was more than thirty years back.  She had ambition even in her blood; she wished to mix herself up in the intrigues of the great.  It was that that ruined her.  She said that one got money for keeping secrets; and I said that one got disgraced and that was all.  To help the great to hide their villainies, and to expect happiness from it, is like making your bed of thorns, in the hope of sleeping well.  But she had a will of her own.”

“You were her husband, though,” objected M. Daburon, “you had the right to command her obedience.”