came back to the window to which the ladder had been raised and examined very carefully the broken shutter. He whistled softly to himself, lighted a cigarette, and leant against the side of the window. He looked out of it, with dull eyes which saw nothing, the while his mind worked upon the facts he had discovered.
He had stood there plunged in reflection for perhaps ten minutes, when there came a sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. He awoke from his absorption, seemed to prick his ears, then slipped a leg over the window-ledge, and disappeared from sight down the ladder.
The door opened, and in came M. Formery, the Duke, and the inspector. M. Formery looked round the room with eyes which seemed to expect to meet a familiar sight, then walked to the other drawing-room and looked round that. He turned to the policeman, who had stepped inside the drawing-room, and said sharply, “M. Guerchard is not here.”
“I left him here,” said the policeman. “He must have disappeared. He’s a wonder.”
“Of course,” said M. Formery. “He has gone down the ladder to examine that house they’re building. He’s just following in our tracks and doing all over again the work we’ve already done. He might have saved himself the trouble. We could have told him all he wants to know. But there! He very likely would not be satisfied till he had seen everything for himself.”
“He may see something which we have missed,” said the Duke.
M. Formery frowned, and said sharply “That’s hardly likely. I don’t think that your Grace realizes to what a perfection constant practice brings one’s power of observation. The inspector and I will cheerfully eat anything we’ve missed—won’t we, inspector?” And he laughed heartily at his joke.
“It might always prove a large mouthful,” said the Duke with an ironical smile.
M. Formery assumed his air of profound reflection, and walked a few steps up and down the room, frowning:
“The more I think about it,” he said, “the clearer it grows that we have disposed of the Lupin theory. This is the work of far less expert rogues than Lupin. What do you think, inspector?”
“Yes; I think you have disposed of that theory, sir,” said the inspector with ready acquiescence.
“All the same, I’d wager anything that we haven’t disposed of it to the satisfaction of Guerchard,” said M. Formery.
“Then he must be very hard to satisfy,” said the Duke.
“Oh, in any other matter he’s open to reason,” said M. Formery; “but Lupin is his fixed idea; it’s an obsession—almost a mania.”
“But yet he never catches him,” said the Duke.
“No; and he never will. His very obsession by Lupin hampers him. It cramps his mind and hinders its working,” said M. Formery.
He resumed his meditative pacing, stopped again, and said:
“But considering everything, especially the absence of any traces of violence, combined with her entire disappearance, I have come to another conclusion. Victoire is the key to the mystery. She is the accomplice. She never slept in her bed. She unmade it to put us off the scent. That, at any rate, is something gained, to have found the accomplice. We shall have this good news, at least, to tell M, Gournay-Martin on his arrival.”
“Do you really think that she’s the accomplice?” said the Duke.
“I’m dead sure of it,” said M. Formery. “We will go up to her room and make another thorough examination of it.”
Guerchard’s head popped up above the window-sill:
“My dear M. Formery,” he said, “I beg that you will not take the trouble.”
M. Formery’s mouth opened: “What! You, Guerchard?” he stammered.
“Myself,” said Guerchard; and he came to the top of the ladder and slipped lightly over the window-sill into the room.
He shook hands with M. Formery and nodded to the inspector. Then he looked at the Duke with an air of inquiry.
“Let me introduce you,” said M. Formery. “Chief-Inspector Guerchard, head of the Detective Department—the Duke of Charmerace.”
The Duke shook hands with Guerchard, saying, “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, M. Guerchard. I’ve been expecting your coming with the greatest interest. Indeed it was I who begged the officials at the Prefecture of Police to put this case in your hands. I insisted on it.”
“What were you doing on that ladder?” said M. Formery, giving Guerchard no time to reply to the Duke.
“I was listening,” said Guerchard simply—“listening. I like to hear people talk when I’m engaged on a case. It’s a distraction—and it helps. I really must congratulate you, my dear M. Formery, on the admirable manner in which you have conducted this inquiry.”
M. Formery bowed, and regarded him with a touch of suspicion.
“There are one or two minor points on which we do not agree, but on the whole your method has been admirable,” said Guerchard.
“Well, about Victoire,” said M. Formery. “You’re quite sure that an examination, a more thorough examination, of her room, is unnecessary?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Guerchard. “I have just looked at it myself.”
The door opened, and in came Bonavent, one of the detectives who had come earlier from the Prefecture. In his hand he carried a scrap of cloth.
He saluted Guerchard, and said to M. Formery, “I have just found this scrap of cloth on the edge of the well at the bottom of the garden. The concierge’s wife tells me that it has been torn from Victoire’s dress.”
“I feared it,” said M. Formery, taking the scrap of cloth from Mm. “I feared foul play. We must go to the well at once, send some one down it, or have it dragged.”
He was moving hastily to the door, when Guerchard said, in his husky, gentle voice, “I don’t think there is any need to look for Victoire in the well.”
“But this scrap of cloth,” said M. Formery, holding it out to him.
“Yes, yes, that scrap of cloth,” said Guerchard. And, turning to the Duke, he added, “Do you know if there’s a dog or cat in the house, your Grace? I suppose that, as the fiance of Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin, you are familiar with the house?”
“What on earth—” said M. Formery.
“Excuse me,” interrupted Guerchard. “But this is important—very important.”
“Yes, there is a cat,” said the Duke. “I’ve seen a cat at the door of the concierge’s rooms.”
“It must have been that cat which took this scrap of cloth to the edge of the well,” said Guerchard gravely.
“This is ridiculous—preposterous!” cried M. Formery, beginning to flush. “Here we’re dealing with a most serious crime—a murder—the murder of Victoire—and you talk about cats!”
“Victoire has not been murdered,” said Guerchard; and his husky voice was gentler than ever, only just audible.
“But we don’t know that—we know nothing of the kind,” said M. Formery.
“I do,” said Guerchard.
“You?” said M. Formery.
“Yes,” said Guerchard.
“Then how do you explain her disappearance?”
“If she had disappeared I shouldn’t explain it,” said Guerchard.
“But since she has disappeared?” cried M. Formery, in a tone of exasperation.
“She hasn’t,” said Guerchard.
“You