LITMIR.BIZ

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it is I; what of it?”

      “What! Are you so forgetful? Don’t you recognize me?”

      “No, not at all.”

      “Yet I was one of your admirers once, my dear, and used to breakfast with you when you lived near the Madeleine; in the count’s time, you know.”

      He took off his spectacles as if to wipe them, but really to launch a furious look at Mme. Charman, who, not daring to resist, beat a hasty retreat.

      “I knew Tremorel well in other days,” resumed the detective. “And —by the bye, have you heard any news of him lately?”

      “I saw him about a week ago.”

      “Stop, though—haven’t you heard of that horrible affair?”

      “No. What was it?”

      “Really, now, haven’t you heard? Don’t you read the papers? It was a dreadful thing, and has been the talk of all Paris for the past forty-eight hours.”

      “Tell me about it, quick!”

      “You know that he married the widow of one of his friends. He was thought to be very happy at home; not at all; he has murdered his wife with a knife.”

      Jenny grew pale under her paint.

      “Is it possible?” stammered she. She seemed much affected, but not very greatly surprised, which M. Lecoq did not fail to remark.

      “It is so possible,” he resumed, “that he is at this moment in prison, will soon be tried, and without a doubt will be convicted.”

      M. Plantat narrowly observed Jenny; he looked for an explosion of despair, screams, tears, at least a light nervous attack; he was mistaken.

      Jenny now detested Tremorel. Sometimes she felt the weight of her degradation, and she accused Hector of her present ignominy. She heartily hated him, though she smiled when she saw him, got as much money out of him as she could, and cursed him behind his back. Instead of bursting into tears, she therefore laughed aloud.

      “Well done for Tremorel,” said she. “Why did he leave me? Good for her too.”

      “Why so?”

      “What did she deceive her husband for? It was she who took Hector from me—she, a rich, married woman! But I’ve always said Hector was a poor wretch.”

      “Frankly, that’s my notion too. When a man acts as Tremorel has toward you, he’s a villain.”

      “It’s so, isn’t it?”

      “Parbleu! But I’m not surprised at his conduct. For his wife’s murder is the least of his crimes; why, he tried to put it off upon somebody else!”

      “That doesn’t surprise me.”

      “He accused a poor devil as innocent as you or I, who might have been condemned to death if he hadn’t been able to tell where he was on Wednesday night.”

      M. Lecoq said this lightly, with intended deliberation, so as to watch the impression he produced on Jenny.

      “Do you know who the man was?” asked she in a tremulous voice.

      “The papers said it was a poor lad who was his gardener.”

      “A little man, wasn’t he, thin, very dark, with black hair?”

      “Just so.”

      “And whose name was—wait now—was—Guespin.”

      “Ah ha, you know him then?”

      Jenny hesitated. She was trembling very much, and evidently regretted that she had gone so far.

      “Bah!” said she at last. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell what I know. I’m an honest girl, if Tremorel is a rogue; and I don’t want them to condemn a poor wretch who is innocent.”

      “You know something about it, then?”

      “Well, I know nearly all about it—that’s honest, ain’t it? About a week ago Hector wrote to me to meet him at Melun; I went, found him, and we breakfasted together. Then he told me that he was very much annoyed about his cook’s marriage; for one of his servants was deeply in love with her, and might go and raise a rumpus at the wedding.”

      “Ah, he spoke to you about the wedding, then?”

      “Wait a minute. Hector seemed very much embarrassed, not knowing how to avoid the disturbance he feared. Then I advised him to send the servant off out of the way on the wedding-day. He thought a moment, and said that my advice was good. He added that he had found a means of doing this; on the evening of the marriage he would send the man on an errand for me, telling him that the affair was to be concealed from the countess. I was to dress up—as a chambermaid, and wait for the man at the cafe in the Place du Chatelet, between half-past nine and ten that evening; I was to sit at the table nearest the entrance on the right, with a bouquet in my hand, so that he should recognize me. He would come in and give me a package; then I was to ask him to take something, and so get him tipsy if possible, and then walk about Paris with him till morning.”

      Jenny expressed herself with difficulty, hesitating, choosing her words, and trying to remember exactly what Tremorel said.

      “And you,” interrupted M. Lecoq, “did you believe all this story about a jealous servant?”

      “Not quite; but I fancied that he had some intrigue on foot, and I wasn’t sorry to help him deceive a woman whom I detested, and who had wronged me.”

      “So you did as he told you?”

      “Exactly, from beginning to end; everything happened just as Hector had foreseen. The man came along at just ten o’clock, took me for a maid, and gave me the package. I naturally offered him a glass of beer; he took it and proposed another, which I also accepted. He is a very nice fellow, this gardener, and I passed a very pleasant evening with him. He knew lots of queer things, and—”

      “Never mind that. What did you do then?”

      “After the beer we had some wine, then some beer again, then some punch, then some more wine—the gardener had his pockets full of money. He was very tipsy by eleven and invited me to go and have a dance with him at the Batignolles. I refused, and asked him to escort me back to my mistress at the upper end of the Champs Elysees. We went out of the cafe and walked up the Rue de Rivoli, stopping every now and then for more wine and beer. By two o’clock the fellow was so far gone that he fell like a lump on a bench near the Arc de Triomphe, where he went to sleep; and there I left him.”

      “Well, where did you go?”

      “Home.”

      “What has become of the package?”

      “Oh, I intended to throw it into the Seine, as Hector wished, but I forgot it; you see, I had drunk almost as much as the gardener —so I carried it back home with me, and it is in my room now.”

      “Have you opened it?”

      “Well—what do you think?”

      “What did it contain?”

      “A hammer, two other tools and a large knife.”

      Guespin’s innocence was now evident, and the detective’s foresight was realized.

      “Guespin’s all right,” said M. Plantat. “But we must know—”

      M. Lecoq interrupted him; he knew now all he wished. Jenny could tell him nothing more, so he suddenly changed his tone from a wheedling one to abrupt severity.

      “My fine young woman,” said he, “you have saved an innocent man, but you must repeat what you have just said to the judge of instruction at Corbeil. And as you might lose yourself on the way, I’ll give you a guide.”

      He went to the window and opened it; perceiving

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