LITMIR.BIZ

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me to carry the dessert wine to the servants’ table.”

      “And where were the empty bottles put?”

      “I put them in this corner cupboard, and when they amounted to a certain number, I carried them down cellar.”

      “When did you last do so?”

      “Oh”—Francois reflected—“at least five or six days ago.”

      “Good. Now, what liqueurs did the count drink?”

      “The count scarcely ever drank liqueurs. If, by chance, he took a notion to have a small glass of eau-de-vie, he got it from the liqueur closet, there, over the stove.”

      “There were no decanters of rum or cognac in any of the cupboards?”

      “No.”

      “Thanks; you may retire.”

      As Francois was going out, M. Lecoq called him back.

      “While we are about it, look in the bottom of the closet, and see if you find the right number of empty bottles.”

      The valet obeyed, and looked into the closet.

      “There isn’t one there.”

      “Just so,” returned M. Lecoq. “This time, show us your heels for good.”

      As soon as Francois had shut the door, M. Lecoq turned to Plantat and asked:

      “What do you think now?”

      “You were perfectly right.”

      The detective then smelt successively each glass and bottle.

      “Good again! Another proof in aid of my guess.”

      “What more?”

      “It was not wine that was at the bottom of these glasses. Among all the empty bottles put away in the bottom of that closet, there was one—here it is—which contained vinegar; and it was from this bottle that they turned what they thought to be wine into the glasses.”

      Seizing a glass, he put it to M. Plantat’s nose, adding:

      “See for yourself.”

      There was no disputing it; the vinegar was good, its odor of the strongest; the villains, in their haste, had left behind them an incontestable proof of their intention to mislead the officers of justice. While they were capable of shrewd inventions, they did not have the art to perform them well. All their oversights could, however, be accounted for by their sudden haste, caused by the occurrence of an unlooked-for incident. “The floors of a house where a crime has just been committed,” said a famous detective, “burn the feet.” M. Lecoq seemed exasperated, like a true artist, before the gross, pretentious, and ridiculous work of some green and bungling scholar.

      “These are a parcel of vulgar ruffians, truly! able ones, certainly; but they don’t know their trade yet, the wretches.”

      M. Lecoq, indignant, ate three or four lozenges at a mouthful.

      “Come, now,” said Plantat, in a paternally severe tone. “Don’t let’s get angry. The people have failed in address, no doubt; but reflect that they could not, in their calculations, take account of the craft of a man like you.”

      M. Lecoq, who had the vanity which all actors possess, was flattered by the compliment, and but poorly dissimulated an expression of pleasure.

      “We must be indulgent; come now,” pursued Plantat. “Besides,” he paused a moment to give more weight to what he was going to say, “besides, you haven’t seen everything yet.”

      No one could tell when M. Lecoq was playing a comedy. He did not always know, himself. This great artist, devoted to his art, practised the feigning of all the emotions of the human soul, just as he accustomed himself to wearing all sorts of costumes. He was very indignant against the assassins, and gesticulated about in great excitement; but he never ceased to watch Plantat slyly, and the last words of the latter made him prick up his ears.

      “Let’s see the rest, then,” said he.

      As he followed his worthy comrade to the garden, he renewed his confidences to the dear defunct.

      “Confound this old bundle of mystery! We can’t take this obstinate fellow by surprise, that’s clear. He’ll give us the word of the riddle when we have guessed it; not before. He is as strong as we, my darling; he only needs a little practice. But look you—if he has found something which has escaped us, he must have previous information, that we don’t know of.”

      Nothing had been disturbed in the garden.

      “See here, Monsieur Lecoq,” said the old justice of the peace, as he followed a winding pathway which led to the river. “It was here that one of the count’s slippers was found; below there, a little to the right of these geraniums, his silk handkerchief was picked up.”

      They reached the river-bank, and lifted, with great care, the planks which had been placed there to preserve the foot-prints.

      “We suppose,” said M. Plantat, “that the countess, in her flight, succeeded in getting to this spot; and that here they caught up with her and gave her a finishing blow.”

      Was this really Plantat’s opinion, or did he only report the morning’s theory? M. Lecoq could not tell.

      “According to my calculations,” he said, “the countess could not have fled, but was brought here already dead, or logic is not logic. However, let us examine this spot carefully.”

      He knelt down and studied the sand on the path, the stagnant water, and the reeds and water-plants. Then going along a little distance, he threw a stone, approaching again to see the effect produced on the mud. He next returned to the house, and came back again under the willows, crossing the lawn, where were still clearly visible traces of a heavy burden having been dragged over it. Without the least respect for his pantaloons, he crossed the lawn on all-fours, scrutinizing the smallest blades of grass, pulling away the thick tufts to see the earth better, and minutely observing the direction of the broken stems. This done, he said:

      “My conclusions are confirmed. The countess was carried across here.”

      “Are you sure of it?” asked Plantat.

      There was no mistaking the old man’s hesitation this time; he was clearly undecided, and leaned on the other’s judgment for guidance.

      “There can be no error, possibly.”

      The detective smiled, as he added:

      “Only, as two heads are better than one, I will ask you to listen to me, and then, you will tell me what you think.”

      M. Lecoq had, in searching about, picked up a little flexible stick, and while he talked, he used it to point out this and that object, like the lecturer at the panorama.

      “No,” said he, “Madame de Tremorel did not fly from her murderers. Had she been struck down here, she would have fallen violently; her weight, therefore, would have made the water spirt to some distance, as well as the mud; and we should certainly have found some splashes.”

      “But don’t you think that, since morning, the sun—”

      “The sun would have absorbed the water; but the stain of dry mud would have remained. I have found nothing of the sort anywhere. You might object, that the water and mud would have spirted right and left; but just look at the tufts of these flags, lilies, and stems of cane—you find a light dust on every one. Do you find the least trace of a drop of water? No. There was then no splash, therefore no violent fall; therefore the countess was not killed here; therefore her body was brought here, and carefully deposited where you found it.”

      M. Plantat did not seem to be quite convinced yet.

      “But there are the traces of a struggle in the sand,” said he.

      His companion made a gesture of protest.

      “Monsieur

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