Rarely had the police found themselves in the presence of so strange an affair, without the slightest clue to guide them.  Of course, there was the fact itself, as evidenced by the bodies of the three victims; but the authorities were quite ignorant of the circumstances that had attended and of the motive that had inspired the crime.  Certainly, they might hope with the powerful means of investigation at their disposal to finally arrive at the truth in the course of time, and after repeated efforts.  But, in the mean while, all was mystery, and so strangely did the case present itself that it could not safely be said who was really responsible for the horrible tragedy at the Poivriere.

The murderer had certainly been arrested; but if he persisted in his obstinacy, how were they to ascertain his name?  He protested that he had merely killed in self-defense.  How could it be shown that such was not the case?  Nothing was known concerning the victims; one of whom had with his dying breath accused himself.  Then again, an inexplicable influence tied the Widow Chupin’s tongue.  Two women, one of whom had lost an earring valued at 5,000 francs, had witnessed the struggle—­then disappeared.  An accomplice, after two acts of unheard-of audacity, had also made his escape.  And all these people—­the women, the murderer, the keeper of the saloon, the accomplice, and the victims—­were equally strange and mysterious, equally liable not to be what they seemed.

Perhaps the commissary of police thought he would spend a very unpleasant quarter of an hour at the prefecture when he reported the case.  Certainly, he spoke of the crime in a very despondent tone.

“It will now be best,” he said at last, “to transport these three bodies to the Morgue.  There they will doubtless be identified.”  He reflected for a moment, and then added:  “And to think that one of these dead men is perhaps Lacheneur himself!”

“That is scarcely possible,” said Lecoq.  “The spurious soldier, being the last to die, had seen his companions fall.  If he had supposed Lacheneur to be dead, he would not have spoken of vengeance.”

Gevrol, who for the past two hours had pretended to pay no attention to the proceedings, now approached.  He was not the man to yield even to the strongest evidence.  “If Monsieur, the Commissary, will listen to me, he shall hear my opinion, which is a trifle more definite than M. Lecoq’s fancies.”

Before he could say any more, the sound of a vehicle stopping before the door of the cabin interrupted him, and an instant afterward the investigating magistrate entered the room.

All the officials assembled at the Poivriere knew at least by sight the magistrate who now made his appearance, and Gevrol, an old habitue of the Palais de Justice, mechanically murmured his name:  “M.  Maurice d’Escorval.”

He was the son of that famous Baron d’Escorval, who, in 1815, sealed his devotion to the empire with his blood, and upon whom Napoleon, in the Memorial of St. Helena, pronounced this magnificent eulogium:  “Men as honest as he may, I believe, exist; but more honest, no, it is not possible.”