LITMIR.BIZ

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and unshaken. He closed his investigation, and, a few weeks later, the trial commenced. It proved to be slow and tedious. The judge was listless, and the public prosecutor presented the case in a careless manner. Under those circumstances, Danègre’s counsel had an easy task. He pointed out the defects and inconsistencies of the case for the prosecution, and argued that the evidence was quite insufficient to convict the accused. Who had made the key, the indispensable key without which Danègre, on leaving the apartment, could not have locked the door behind him? Who had ever seen such a key, and what had become of it? Who had seen the assassin’s knife, and where is it now?

      “In any event,” argued the prisoner’s counsel, “the prosecution must prove, beyond any reasonable doubt, that the prisoner committed the murder. The prosecution must show that the mysterious individual who entered the house at three o’clock in the morning is not the guilty party. To be sure, the clock indicated eleven o’clock. But what of that? I contend, that proves nothing. The assassin could turn the hands of the clock to any hour he pleased, and thus deceive us in regard to the exact hour of the crime.”

      Victor Danègre was acquitted.

      He left the prison on Friday about dusk in the evening, weak and depressed by his six months’ imprisonment. The inquisition, the solitude, the trial, the deliberations of the jury, combined to fill him with a nervous fear. At night, he had been afflicted with terrible nightmares and haunted by weird visions of the scaffold. He was a mental and physical wreck.

      Under the assumed name of Anatole Dufour, he rented a small room on the heights of Montmartre, and lived by doing odd jobs wherever he could find them. He led a pitiful existence. Three times, he obtained regular employment, only to be recognized and then discharged. Sometimes, he had an idea that men were following him—detectives, no doubt, who were seeking to trap and denounce him. He could almost feel the strong hand of the law clutching him by the collar.

      One evening, as he was eating his dinner at a neighboring restaurant, a man entered and took a seat at the same table. He was a person about forty years of age, and wore a frock-coat of doubtful cleanliness. He ordered soup, vegetables, and a bottle of wine. After he had finished his soup, he turned his eyes on Danègre, and gazed at him intently. Danègre winced. He was certain that this was one of the men who had been following him for several weeks. What did he want? Danègre tried to rise, but failed. His limbs refused to support him. The man poured himself a glass of wine, and then filled Danègre’s glass. The man raised his glass, and said:

      “To your health, Victor Danègre.”

      Victor started in alarm, and stammered:

      “I!… I!…no, no.… I swear to you.…”

      “You will swear what? That you are not yourself? The servant of the countess?”

      “What servant? My name is Dufour. Ask the proprietor.”

      “Yes, Anatole Dufour to the proprietor of this restaurant, but Victor Danègre to the officers of the law.”

      “That’s not true! Some one has lied to you.”

      The new-comer took a card from his pocket and handed it to Victor, who read on it: “Grimaudan, ex-inspector of the detective force. Private business transacted.” Victor shuddered as he said:

      “You are connected with the police?”

      “No, not now, but I have a liking for the business and I continue to work at it in a manner more—profitable. From time to time I strike upon a golden opportunity—such as your case presents.”

      “My case?”

      “Yes, yours. I assure you it is a most promising affair, provided you are inclined to be reasonable.”

      “But if I am not reasonable?”

      “Oh! my good fellow, you are not in a position to refuse me anything I may ask.”

      “What is it…you want?” stammered Victor, fearfully.

      “Well, I will inform you in a few words. I am sent by Mademoiselle de Sinclèves, the heiress of the Countess d’Andillot.”

      “What for?”

      “To recover the black pearl.”

      “Black pearl?”

      “That you stole.”

      “But I haven’t got it.”

      “You have it.”

      “If I had, then I would be the assassin.”

      “You are the assassin.”

      Danègre showed a forced smile.

      “Fortunately for me, monsieur, the Assizecourt was not of your opinion. The jury returned an unanimous verdict of acquittal. And when a man has a clear conscience and twelve good men in his favor—”

      The ex-inspector seized him by the arm and said:

      “No fine phrases, my boy. Now, listen to me and weigh my words carefully. You will find they are worthy of your consideration. Now, Danègre, three weeks before the murder, you abstracted the cook’s key to the servants’ door, and had a duplicate key made by a locksmith named Outard, 244 rue Oberkampf.”

      “It’s a lie—it’s a lie!” growled Victor. “No person has seen that key. There is no such key.”

      “Here it is.”

      After a silence, Grimaudan continued:

      “You killed the countess with a knife purchased by you at the Bazar de la Republique on the same day as you ordered the duplicate key. It has a triangular blade with a groove running from end to end.”

      “That is all nonsense. You are simply guessing at something you don’t know. No one ever saw the knife.”

      “Here it is.”

      Victor Danègre recoiled. The ex-inspector continued:

      “There are some spots of rust upon it. Shall I tell you how they came there?”

      “Well!…you have a key and a knife. Who can prove that they belong to me?”

      “The locksmith, and the clerk from whom you bought the knife. I have already refreshed their memories, and, when you confront them, they cannot fail to recognize you.”

      His speech was dry and hard, with a tone of firmness and precision. Danègre was trembling with fear, and yet he struggled desperately to maintain an air of indifference.

      “Is that all the evidence you have?”

      “Oh! no, not at all. I have plenty more. For instance, after the crime, you went out the same way you had entered. But, in the centre of the wardrobe-room, being seized by some sudden fear, you leaned against the wall for support.”

      “How do you know that? No one could know such a thing,” argued the desperate man.

      “The police know nothing about it, of course. They never think of lighting a candle and examining the walls. But if they had done so, they would have found on the white plaster a faint red spot, quite distinct, however, to trace in it the imprint of your thumb which you had pressed against the wall while it was wet with blood. Now, as you are well aware, under the Bertillon system, thumb-marks are one of the principal means of identification.”

      Victor Danègre was livid; great drops of perspiration rolled down his face and fell upon the table. He gazed, with a wild look, at the strange man who had narrated the story of his crime as faithfully as if he had been an invisible witness to it. Overcome and powerless, Victor bowed his head. He felt that it was useless to struggle against this marvelous man. So he said:

      “How much will you give me, if I give you the pearl?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Oh! you are joking! Or do you mean that I should give you an article worth thousands and hundreds of thousands and get nothing in return?”

      “You

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