“It is evident,” said the commissary to the investigating magistrate, “that robbery was the motive of the crime.”

“It is probable,” answered Gevrol in a sly way; “and that accounts for the absence of the silver spoons from the table.”

“Look here!  Some pieces of gold in this drawer!” exclaimed Lecoq, who had been searching on his own account, “just three hundred and twenty francs!”

“Well, I never!” cried Gevrol, a little disconcerted.  But he soon recovered from his embarrassment, and added:  “He must have forgotten them; that often happens.  I have known an assassin, who, after accomplishing the murder, became so utterly bewildered as to depart without remembering to take the plunder, for which he had committed the crime.  Our man became excited perhaps, or was interrupted.  Some one may have knocked at the door.  What makes me more willing to think so is, that the scamp did not leave the candle burning.  You see he took the trouble to put it out.”

“Pooh!” said Lecoq.  “That proves nothing.  He is probably an economical and careful man.”

The investigations of the two agents were continued all over the house; but their most minute researches resulted in discovering absolutely nothing; not one piece of evidence to convict; not the faintest indication which might serve as a point of departure.  Even the dead woman’s papers, if she possessed any, had disappeared.  Not a letter, not a scrap of paper even, to be met with.  From time to time Gevrol stopped to swear or grumble.  “Oh! it is cleverly done!  It is a tiptop piece of work!  The scoundrel is a cool hand!”

“Well, what do you make of it?” at length demanded the investigating magistrate.

“It is a drawn game monsieur,” replied Gevrol.  “We are baffled for the present.  The miscreant has taken his measures with great precaution; but I will catch him.  Before night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit.  Besides, he is sure to fall into our hands.  He has carried off the plate and the jewels.  He is lost!”

“Despite all that,” said M. Daburon, “we are no further advanced than we were this morning!”

“Well!” growled Gevrol.  “A man can only do what he can!”

“Ah!” murmured Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly audible, however, “why is not old Tirauclair here?”

“What could he do more than we have done?” retorted Gevrol, directing a furious glance at his subordinate.  Lecoq bowed his head and was silent, inwardly delighted at having wounded his chief.

“Who is old Tirauclair?” asked M. Daburon.  “It seems to me that I have heard the name, but I can’t remember where.”

“He is an extraordinary man!” exclaimed Lecoq.  “He was formerly a clerk at the Mont de Piete,” added Gevrol; “but he is now a rich old fellow, whose real name is Tabaret.  He goes in for playing the detective by way of amusement.”

“And to augment his revenues,” insinuated the commissary.