no other thefts?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, there was another theft, or rather an attempt at theft,” said the Duke with some hesitation. “The rogues who stole the motor-cars presented themselves at the chateau under the name of Charolais—a father and three sons—on the pretext of buying the hundred-horse-power Mercrac. M. Gournay-Martin had advertised it for sale in the Rennes Advertiser. They were waiting in the big hall of the chateau, which the family uses as the chief living-room, for the return of M. Gournay-Martin. He came; and as they left the hall one of them attempted to steal a pendant set with pearls which I had given to Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin half an hour before. I caught him in the act and saved the pendant.”
“Good! good! Wait—we have one of the gang—wait till I question him,” said M. Formery, rubbing his hands; and his eyes sparkled with joy.
“Well, no; I’m afraid we haven’t,” said the Duke in an apologetic tone.
“What! We haven’t? Has he escaped from the police? Oh, those country police!” cried M. Formery.
“No; I didn’t charge him with the theft,” said the Duke.
“You didn’t charge him with the theft?” cried M. Formery, astounded.
“No; he was very young and he begged so hard. I had the pendant. I let him go,” said the Duke.
“Oh, your Grace, your Grace! Your duty to society!” cried M. Formery.
“Yes, it does seem to have been rather weak,” said the Duke; “but there you are. It’s no good crying over spilt milk.”
M. Formery folded his arms and walked, frowning, backwards and forwards across the room.
He stopped, raised his hand with a gesture commanding attention, and said, “I have no hesitation in saying that there is a connection—an intimate connection—between the thefts at Charmerace and this burglary!”
The Duke and the inspector gazed at him with respectful eyes—at least, the eyes of the inspector were respectful; the Duke’s eyes twinkled.
“I am gathering up the threads,” said M. Formery. “Inspector, bring up the concierge and his wife. I will question them on the scene of the crime. Their dossier should be here. If it is, bring it up with them; if not, no matter; bring them up without it.”
The inspector left the drawing-room. M. Formery plunged at once into frowning meditation.
“I find all this extremely interesting,” said the Duke.
“Charmed! Charmed!” said M. Formery, waving his hand with an absent-minded air.
The inspector entered the drawing-room followed by the concierge and his wife. He handed a paper to M. Formery. The concierge, a bearded man of about sixty, and his wife, a somewhat bearded woman of about fifty-five, stared at M. Formery with fascinated, terrified eyes. He sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, read the paper through, and then scrutinized them keenly.
“Well, have you recovered from your adventure?” he said.
“Oh, yes, sir,” said the concierge. “They hustled us a bit, but they did not really hurt us.”
“Nothing to speak of, that is,” said his wife. “But all the same, it’s a disgraceful thing that an honest woman can’t sleep in peace in her bed of a night without being disturbed by rascals like that. And if the police did their duty things like this wouldn’t happen. And I don’t care who hears me say it.”
“You say that you were taken by surprise in your sleep?” said M. Formery. “You say you saw nothing, and heard nothing?”
“There was no time to see anything or hear anything. They trussed us up like greased lightning,” said the concierge.
“But the gag was the worst,” said the wife. “To lie there and not be able to tell the rascals what I thought about them!”
“Didn’t you hear the noise of footsteps in the garden?” said M. Formery.
“One can’t hear anything that happens in the garden from our bedroom,” said the concierge.
“Even the night when Mlle. Germaine’s great Dane barked from twelve o’clock till seven in the morning, all the household was kept awake except us; but bless you, sir, we slept like tops,” said his wife proudly.
“If they sleep like that it seems rather a waste of time to have gagged them,” whispered the Duke to the inspector.
The inspector grinned, and whispered scornfully, “Oh, them common folks; they do sleep like that, your Grace.”
“Didn’t you hear any noise at the front door?” said M. Formery.
“No, we heard no noise at the door,” said the concierge.
“Then you heard no noise at all the whole night?” said M. Formery.
“Oh, yes, sir, we heard noise enough after we’d been gagged,” said the concierge.
“Now, this is important,” said M. Formery. “What kind of a noise was it?”
“Well, it was a bumping kind of noise,” said the concierge. “And there was a noise of footsteps, walking about the room.”
“What room? Where did these noises come from?” said M. Formery.
“From the room over our heads—the big drawing-room,” said the concierge.
“Didn’t you hear any noise of a struggle, as if somebody was being dragged about—no screaming or crying?” said M. Formery.
The concierge and his wife looked at one another with inquiring eyes.
“No, I didn’t,” said the concierge.
“Neither did I,” said his wife.
M. Formery paused. Then he said, “How long have you been in the service of M. Gournay-Martin?”
“A little more than a year,” said the concierge.
M. Formery looked at the paper in his hand, frowned, and said severely, “I see you’ve been convicted twice, my man.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“My husband’s an honest man, sir—perfectly honest,” broke in his wife. “You’ve only to ask M. Gournay-Martin; he’ll—”
“Be so good as to keep quiet, my good woman,” said M. Formery; and, turning to her husband, he went on: “At your first conviction you were sentenced to a day’s imprisonment with costs; at your second conviction you got three days’ imprisonment.”
“I’m not going to deny it, sir,” said the concierge; “but it was an honourable imprisonment.”
“Honourable?” said M. Formery.
“The first time, I was a gentleman’s servant, and I got a day’s imprisonment for crying, ‘Hurrah for the General Strike!’—on the first of May.”
“You were a valet? In whose service?” said M. Formery.
“In the service of M. Genlis, the Socialist leader.”
“And your second conviction?” said M. Formery.
“It was for having cried in the porch of Ste. Clotilde, ‘Down with the cows!’—meaning the police, sir,” said the concierge.
“And were you in the service of M. Genlis then?” said M. Formery.
“No, sir; I was in the service of M. Bussy-Rabutin, the Royalist deputy.”
“You don’t seem to have very well-defined political convictions,” said M. Formery.
“Oh, yes, sir, I have,” the concierge protested. “I’m always devoted to my masters; and I have the same opinions that they have—always.”