the gate.”
“Who was the last person you saw with the baron?”
“Mademoiselle Antoinette, his secretary.”
“What has become of her?”
“I don’t know. Her bed wasn’t occupied, so she must have gone out. I am not surprised at that, as she is young and pretty.”
“But how could she leave the house?”
“By the door,” said Charles.
“But you had bolted and chained it.”
“Yes, but she must have left before that.”
“And the crime was committed after her departure?”
“Of course,” said the servant.
The house was searched from cellar to garret, but the assassin had fled. How? And when? Was it he or an accomplice who had returned to the scene of the crime and removed everything that might furnish a clue to his identity? Such were the questions the police were called upon to solve.
The coroner came at seven o’clock; and, at eight o’clock, Mon. Dudouis, the head of the detective service, arrived on the scene. They were followed by the Procureur of the Republic and the investigating magistrate. In addition to these officials, the house was overrun with policemen, detectives, newspaper reporters, photographers, and relatives and acquaintances of the murdered man.
A thorough search was made; they studied out the position of the corpse according to the information furnished by Charles; they questioned Sister Auguste when she arrived; but they discovered nothing new. Sister Auguste was astonished to learn of the disappearance of Antoinette Bréhat. She had engaged the young girl twelve days before, on excellent recommendations, and refused to believe that she would neglect her duty by leaving the house during the night.
“But, you see, she hasn’t returned yet,” said the magistrate, “and we are still confronted with the question: What has become of her?”
“I think she was abducted by the assassin,” said Charles.
The theory was plausible, and was borne out by certain facts. Mon. Dudouis agreed with it. He said:
“Abducted? ma foi! that is not improbable.”
“Not only improbable,” said a voice, “but absolutely opposed to the facts. There is not a particle of evidence to support such a theory.”
The voice was harsh, the accent sharp, and no one was surprised to learn that the speaker was Ganimard. In no one else, would they tolerate such a domineering tone.
“Ah! it is you, Ganimard!” exclaimed Mon. Dudouis. “I had not seen you before.”
“I have been here since two o’clock.”
“So you are interested in some things outside of lottery ticket number 514, the affair of the rue Clapeyron, the blonde lady and Arsène Lupin?”
“Ha-ha!” laughed the veteran detective. “I would not say that Lupin is a stranger to the present case. But let us forget the affair of the lottery ticket for a few moments, and try to unravel this new mystery.”
* * * *
Ganimard is not one of those celebrated detectives whose methods will create a school, or whose name will be immortalized in the criminal annals of his country. He is devoid of those flashes of genius which characterize the work of Dupin, Lecoq and Sherlock Holmes. Yet, it must be admitted, he possesses superior qualities of observation, sagacity, perseverance and even intuition. His merit lies in his absolute independence. Nothing troubles or influences him, except, perhaps, a sort of fascination that Arsène Lupin holds over him. However that may be, there is no doubt that his position on that morning, in the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec, was one of undoubted superiority, and his collaboration in the case was appreciated and desired by the investigating magistrate.
“In the first place,” said Ganimard, “I will ask Monsieur Charles to be very particular on one point: He says that, on the occasion of his first visit to the room, various articles of furniture were overturned and strewn about the place; now, I ask him whether, on his second visit to the room, he found all those articles restored to their accustomed places—I mean, of course, correctly placed.”
“Yes, all in their proper places,” replied Charles.
“It is obvious, then, that the person who replaced them must have been familiar with the location of those articles.”
The logic of this remark was apparent to his hearers. Ganimard continued:
“One more question, Monsieur Charles. You were awakened by the ringing of your bell. Now, who, do you think, rang it?”
“Monsieur le baron, of course.”
“When could he ring it!”
“After the struggle…when he was dying.”
“Impossible; because you found him lying, unconscious, at a point more than four metres from the bell-button.”
“Then he must have rung during the struggle.”
“Impossible,” declared Ganimard, “since the ringing, as you have said, was continuous and uninterrupted, and lasted seven or eight seconds. Do you think his antagonist would have permitted him to ring the bell in that leisurely manner?”
“Well, then, it was before the attack.”
“Also, quite impossible, since you have told us that the lapse of time between the ringing of the bell and your entrance to the room was not more than three minutes. Therefore, if the baron rang before the attack, we are forced to the conclusion that the struggle, the murder and the flight of the assassin, all occurred within the short space of three minutes. I repeat: that is impossible.”
“And yet,” said the magistrate, “some one rang. If it were not the baron, who was it?”
“The murderer.”
“For what purpose?”
“I do not know. But the fact that he did ring proves that he knew that the bell communicated with the servant’s room. Now, who would know that, except an inmate of the house?”
Ganimard was drawing the meshes of his net closer and tighter. In a few clear and logical sentences, he had unfolded and defined his theory of the crime, so that it seemed quite natural when the magistrate said:
“As I understand it, Ganimard, you suspect the girl Antoinette Bréhat?”
“I do not suspect her; I accuse her.”
“You accuse her of being an accomplice?”
“I accuse her of having killed Baron d’Hautrec.”
“Nonsense! What proof have you?”
“The handful of hair I found in the right hand of the victim.”
He produced the hair; it was of a beautiful blond color, and glittered like threads of gold. Charles looked at it, and said:
“That is Mademoiselle Antoinette’s hair. There can be no doubt of it. And, then, there is another thing. I believe that the knife, which I saw on my first visit to the room, belonged to her. She used it to cut the leaves of books.”
A long, dreadful silence followed, as if the crime had acquired an additional horror by reason of having been committed by a woman. At last, the magistrate said:
“Let us assume, until we are better informed, that the baron was killed by Antoinette Bréhat. We have yet to learn where she concealed herself after the crime, how she managed to return after Charles left the house, and how she made her escape after the arrival of the police. Have you formed any opinion on those points Ganimard?”
“None.”
“Well, then, where do we stand?”
Ganimard