LITMIR.BIZ

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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 deigns to have his joke; those marks would not deceive a school-boy.”

      “It appears to me, however—”

      “There can be no mistake, Monsieur Plantat. Certain it is that the sand has been disturbed and thrown about. But all these trails that lay bare the earth which was covered by the sand, were made by the same foot. Perhaps you don’t believe it. They were made, too, with the end of the foot; that you may see for yourself.”

      “Yes, I perceive it.”

      “Very well, then; when there has been a struggle on ground like this, there are always two distinct kinds of traces—those of the assailant and those of the victim. The assailant, throwing himself forward, necessarily supports himself on his toes, and imprints the fore part of his feet on the earth. The victim, on the contrary, falling back, and trying to avoid the assault, props himself on his heels, and therefore buries the heels in the soil. If the adversaries are equally strong, the number of imprints of the toes and the heels will be nearly equal, according to the chances of the struggle. But what do we find here?”

      M. Plantat interrupted:

      “Enough; the most incredulous would now be convinced.” After thinking a moment, he added:

      “No, there is no longer any possible doubt of it.”

      M. Lecoq thought that his argument deserved a reward, and treated himself to two lozenges at a mouthful.

      “I haven’t done yet,” he resumed. “Granted, that the countess could not have been murdered here; let’s add that she was not carried hither, but dragged along. There are only two ways of dragging a body; by the shoulders, and in this case the feet, scraping along the earth, leave two parallel trails; or by the legs—in which case the head, lying on the earth, leaves a single furrow, and that a wide one.”

      Plantat nodded assent.

      “When I examined the lawn,” pursued M. Lecoq, “I found the parallel trails of the feet, but yet the grass was crushed over a rather wide space. How was that? Because it was the body, not of a man, but of a woman, which was dragged across the lawn—of a woman full-dressed, with heavy petticoats; that, in short, of the countess, and not of the count.”

      M. Lecoq paused, in expectation of a question, or a remark.

      But the old justice of the peace did not seem to be listening, and appeared to be plunged in the deepest meditation. Night was falling; a light fog hung like smoke over the Seine.

      “We

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