The Teeth of the Tiger

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS, VOLUME VIII

  Two lodges, belonging to the same old-time period as the house itself,stood at the extreme right and left of the low wall that separated thefront courtyard from the Place du Palais-Bourbon. These lodges werejoined to the main building, situated at the back of the courtyard, by aseries of outhouses. On one side were the coach-houses, stables,harness-rooms, and garage, with the porter's lodge at the end; on theother side, the wash-houses, kitchens, and offices, ending in the lodgeoccupied by Mlle. Levasseur.

  This lodge had only a ground floor, consisting of a dark entrance halland one large room, most of which served as a sitting-room, while therest, arranged as a bedroom, was really only a sort of alcove. A curtainhid the bed and wash-hand-stand. There were two windows looking out onthe Place du Palais-Bourbon.

  It was the first time that Don Luis had set foot in Mlle. Levasseur'sroom. Engrossed though he was with other matters, he felt its charm. Itwas very simply furnished: some old mahogany chairs and armchairs, aplain, Empire writing-table, a round table with one heavy, massive leg,and some book-shelves. But the bright colour of the linen curtainsenlivened the room. On the walls hung reproductions of famous pictures,drawings of sunny buildings and landscapes, Italian villas, Siciliantemples....

  The girl remained standing. She had resumed her composure, and her facehad taken on the enigmatical expression so difficult to fathom,especially as she had assumed a deliberate air of dejection, whichPerenna guessed was intended to hide her excitement and alertness,together with the tumultuous feelings which even she had great difficultyin controlling.

  Her eyes looked neither timorous nor defiant. It really seemed as thoughshe had nothing to fear from the explanation.

  Don Luis kept silent for some little time. It was strange and it annoyedhim to feel it, but he experienced a certain embarrassment in thepresence of this woman, against whom he was inwardly bringing the mostserious charges. And, not daring to put them into words, not daring tosay plainly what he thought, he began:

  "You know what happened in this house this morning?"

  "This morning?"

  "Yes, when I had finished speaking on the telephone."

  "I know now. I heard it from the servants, from the butler."

  "Not before?"

  "How could I have known earlier?"

  She was lying. It was impossible that she should be speaking the truth.And yet in what a calm voice she had replied!

  He went on:

  "I will tell you, in a few words, what happened. I was leaving thetelephone box, when the iron curtain, concealed in the upper part ofthe wall, fell in front of me. After making sure that there was nothingto be done, I simply resolved, as I had the telephone by me, to call inthe assistance of one of my friends. I rang up Major d'Astrignac. Hecame at once and, with the help of the butler, let me out. Is that whatyou heard?"

  "Yes, Monsieur. I had gone to my room, which explains why I knew nothingof the incident or of Major d'Astrignac's visit."

  "Very well. It appears, however, from what I learned when I was released,that the butler and, for that matter, everybody in the house, includingyourself, knew of the existence of that iron curtain."

  "Certainly."

  "And how did you know it?"

  "Through Baron Malonyi. He told me that, during the Revolution, hisgreat-grandmother, on the mother's side, who then occupied this house andwhose husband was guillotined, remained hidden in that recess forthirteen months. At that time the curtain was covered with woodworksimilar to that of the room."

  "It's a pity that I wasn't informed of it, for, after all, I was verynearly crushed to death."

  This possibility did not seem to move the girl. She said:

  "It would be a good thing to look at the mechanism and see why it becameunfastened. It's all very old and works badly."

  "The mechanism works perfectly. I tested it. An accident is not enough toaccount for it."

  "Who could have done it, if it was not an accident?"

  "Some enemy whom I am unable to name."

  "He would have been seen."

  "There was only one person who could have seen him--yourself. Youhappened to pass through my study as I was telephoning and I heard yourexclamation of fright at the news about Mme. Fauville."

  "Yes, it gave me a shock. I pity the woman so very much, whether she isguilty or not."

  "And, as you were close to the arch, with your hand within reach of thespring, the presence of an evildoer would not have escaped your notice."

  She did not lower her eyes. A slight flush overspread her face,and she said:

  "Yes, I should at least have met him, for, from what I gather, I went outa few seconds before the accident."

  "Quite so," he said. "But what is so curious and unlikely is that you didnot hear the loud noise of the curtain falling, nor my shouts and all theuproar I created."

  "I must have closed the door of the study by that time. I heard nothing."

  "Then I am bound to presume that there was some one hidden in my study atthat moment, and that this person is a confederate of the ruffians whocommitted the two murders on the Boulevard Suchet; for the Prefect ofPolice has just discovered under the cushions of my sofa the half of awalking-stick belonging to one of those ruffians."

  She wore an air of great surprise. This new incident seemed really to bequite unknown to her. He came nearer and, looking her straight in theeyes, said:

  "You must at least admit that it's strange."

  "What's strange?"

  "This series of events, all directed against me. Yesterday, that draft ofa letter which I found in the courtyard--the draft of the articlepublished in the _Echo de France_. This morning, first the crash of theiron curtain just as I was passing under it, next, the discovery of thatwalking-stick, and then, a moment ago, the poisoned water bottle--"

  She nodded her head and murmured:

  "Yes, yes--there is an array of facts--"

  "An array of facts so significant," he said, completing her sentencemeaningly, "as to remove the least shadow of doubt. I can feel absolutelycertain of the immediate intervention of my most ruthless and daringenemy. His presence here is proved. He is ready to act at any moment. Hisobject is plain," explained Don Luis. "By means of the anonymous article,by means of that half of the walking-stick, he meant to compromise me andhave me arrested. By the fall of the curtain he meant to kill me or atleast to keep me imprisoned for some hours. And now it's poison, thecowardly poison which kills by stealth, which they put in my water to-dayand which they will put in my food to-morrow. And next it will be thedagger and then the revolver and then the rope, no matter which, so longas I disappear; for that is what they want: to get rid of me.

  "I am the adversary, I am the man they're afraid of, the man who willdiscover the secret one day and pocket the millions which they're after.I am the interloper. I stand mounting guard over the Morningtoninheritance. It's my turn to suffer. Four victims are dead already. Ishall be the fifth. So Gaston Sauverand has decided: Gaston Sauverand orsome one else who's managing the business."

  Perenna's eyes narrowed.

  "The accomplice is here, in this house, in the midst of everything, by myside. He is lying in wait for me. He is following every step I take. Heis living in my shadow. He is waiting for the time and place to strikeme. Well, I have had enough of it. I want to know, I will know, and Ishall know. Who is he?"

  The girl had moved back a little way and was leaning against the roundtable. He took another step forward and, with his eyes still fixed onhers, looking in that immobile face for a quivering sign of fear oranxiety, he repeated, with greater violence:

  "Who is the accomplice? Who in the house has sworn to take my life?"

  "I don't know," she said, "I don't know. Perhaps there is no plot, as youthink, but just a series of chance coincidences--"

  He felt inclined to say to her, with his habit of adopting a familiartone toward those whom he regarded as his adve
rsaries:

  "You're lying, dearie, you're lying. The accomplice is yourself, mybeauty. You alone overheard my conversation on the telephone withMazeroux, you alone can have gone to Gaston Sauverand's assistance,waited for him in a motor at the corner of the boulevard, and arrangedwith him to bring the top half of the walking-stick here. You're thebeauty that wants to kill me, for some reason which I do not know. Thehand that strikes me in the dark is yours, sweetheart."

  But it was impossible for him to treat her in this fashion; and he was somuch exasperated at not being able to proclaim his certainty in words ofanger and indignation that he took her fingers and twisted themviolently, while his look and his whole attitude accused the girl evenmore forcibly than the bitterest words.

  He mastered himself and released his grip. The girl freed herself with aquick movement, indicating repulsion and hatred. Don Luis said:

  "Very well. I will question the servants. If necessary I shall dismissany whom I suspect."

  "No, don't do that," she said eagerly. "You mustn't. I know them all."

  Was she going to defend them? Was she yielding to a scruple of conscienceat the moment when her obstinacy and duplicity were on the point ofcausing her to sacrifice a set of servants whose conduct she knew to bebeyond reproach? Don Luis received the impression that the glance whichshe threw at him contained an appeal for pity. But pity for whom? For theothers? Or for herself?

  They were silent for a long time. Don Luis, standing a few steps awayfrom her, thought of the photograph, and was surprised to find in thereal woman all the beauty of the portrait, all that beauty which he hadnot observed hitherto, but which now struck him as a revelation. Thegolden hair shone with a brilliancy unknown to him. The mouth wore a lesshappy expression, perhaps, a rather bitter expression, but one whichnevertheless retained the shape of the smile. The curve of the chin, thegrace of the neck revealed above the dip of the linen collar, the line ofthe shoulders, the position of the arms, and of the hands resting on herknees: all this was charming and very gentle and, in a manner, veryseemly and reassuring. Was it possible that this woman should be amurderess, a poisoner?

  He said:

  "I forget what you told me that your Christian name was. But the name yougave me was not the right one."

  "Yes, it was," she said.

  "Your name is Florence: Florence Levasseur."

  She started.

  "What! Who told you? Florence? How do you know?"

  "Here is your photograph, with your name on it almost illegible."

  "Oh!" she said, amazed at seeing the picture. "I can't believe it!Where does it come from? Where did you get it from?" And, suddenly, "Itwas the Prefect of Police who gave it to you, was it not? Yes, it washe, I'm sure of it. I am sure that this photograph is to identify meand that they are looking for me, for me, too. And it's you again, it'syou again--"

  "Have no fear," he said. "The print only wants a few touches to alter theface beyond recognition. I will make them. Have no fear."

  She was no longer listening to him. She gazed at the photograph with allher concentrated attention and murmured:

  "I was twenty years old.... I was living in Italy. Dear me, how happy Iwas on the day when it was taken! And how happy I was when I saw myportrait!... I used to think myself pretty in those days.... And then itdisappeared.... It was stolen from me like other things that had alreadybeen stolen from me, at that time--"

  And, sinking her voice still lower, speaking her name as if she wereaddressing some other woman, some unhappy friend, she repeated:

  "Florence.... Florence--"

  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  "She is not one of those who kill," thought Don Luis. "I can't believethat she is an accomplice. And yet--and yet--"

  He moved away from her and walked across the room from the window to thedoor. The drawings of Italian landscapes on the wall attracted hisattention. Next, he read the titles of the books on the shelves. Theyrepresented French and foreign works, novels, plays, essays, volumes ofpoetry, pointing to a really cultivated and varied taste.

  He saw Racine next to Dante, Stendhal near Edgar Allan Poe, Montaignebetween Goethe and Virgil. And suddenly, with that extraordinary facultywhich enabled him, in any collection of objects, to perceive detailswhich he did not at once take in, he noticed that one of the volumes ofan English edition of Shakespeare's works did not look exactly like theothers. There was something peculiar about the red morocco back,something stiff, without the cracks and creases which show that a bookhas been used.

  It was the eighth volume. He took it out, taking care not to be heard.

  He was not mistaken. The volume was a sham, a mere set of boardssurrounding a hollow space that formed a box and thus provided a regularhiding-place; and, inside this book, he caught sight of plain note-paper,envelopes of different kinds, and some sheets of ordinary ruled paper,all of the same size and looking as if they had been taken from awriting-pad.

  And the appearance of these ruled sheets struck him at once. Heremembered the look of the paper on which the article for the _Echo deFrance_ had been drafted. The ruling was identical, and the shape andsize appeared to be the same.

  On lifting the sheets one after the other, he saw, on the last but one, aseries of lines consisting of words and figures in pencil, like noteshurriedly jotted down.

  He read:

  "House on the Boulevard Suchet."First letter. Night of 15 April."Second. Night of 25th."Third and fourth. Nights of 5 and 15 May."Fifth and explosion. Night of 25 May."

  And, while noting first that the date of the first night was that of theactual day, and next that all these dates followed one another atintervals of ten days, he remarked the resemblance between the writingand the writing of the rough draft.

  The draft was in a notebook in his pocket. He was therefore in aposition to verify the similarity of the two handwritings and of the tworuled sheets of paper. He took his notebook and opened it. The draft wasnot there.

  "Gad," he snarled, "but this is a bit too thick!"

  And, at the same time, he remembered clearly that, when he wastelephoning to Mazeroux in the morning, the notebook was in the pocket ofhis overcoat and that he had left his overcoat on a chair near thetelephone box. Now, at that moment, Mlle. Levasseur, for no reason, wasroaming about the study. What was she doing there?

  "Oh, the play-actress!" thought Perenna, raging within himself. "She washumbugging me. Her tears, her air of frankness, her tender memories: allbunkum! She belongs to the same stock and the same gang as MarieFauville and Gaston Sauverand. Like them, she is an accomplished liarand actress from her slightest gesture down to the least inflection ofher innocent voice."

  He was on the point of having it all out with her and confounding her.This time, the proof was undeniable. Dreading an inquiry which might havebrought the facts home to her, she had been unwilling to leave the draftof the article in the adversary's hands.

  How could he doubt, from this moment, that she was the accompliceemployed by the people who were working the Mornington affair and tryingto get rid of him? Had he not every right to suppose that she wasdirecting the sinister gang, and that, commanding the others with heraudacity and her intelligence, she was leading them toward the obscuregoal at which they were aiming?

  For, after all, she was free, entirely free in her actions and movements.The windows opening on the Place du Palais-Bourbon gave her everyfacility for leaving the house under cover of the darkness and coming inagain unknown to anybody.

  It was therefore quite possible that, on the night of the double crime,she was among the murderers of Hippolyte Fauville and his son. It wasquite possible that she had taken part in the murders, and even that thepoison had been injected into the victims by her hand, by that little,white, slender hand which he saw resting against the golden hair.

  A shudder passed through him. He had softly put back the paper in thebook, restored the book in its place, and moved nearer to the girl.

  All of a sudden, he caught hims
elf studying the lower part of herface, the shape of her jaw! Yes, that was what he was making everyeffort to guess, under the curve of the cheeks and behind the veil ofthe lips. Almost against his will, with personal anguish mingled withtorturing curiosity, he stared and stared, ready to force open thoseclosed lips and to seek the reply to the terrifying problem thatsuggested itself to him.

  Those teeth, those teeth which he did not see, were not they the teeththat had left the incriminating marks in the fruit? Which were the teethof the tiger, the teeth of the wild beast: these, or the other woman's?

  It was an absurd supposition, because the marks had been recognized asmade by Marie Fauville. But was the absurdity of a supposition asufficient reason for discarding it?

  Himself astonished at the feelings that agitated him, fearing lest heshould betray himself, he preferred to cut short the interview and, goingup to the girl, he said to her, in an imperious and aggressive tone:

  "I wish all the servants in the house to be discharged. You will givethem their wages, pay them such compensation as they ask for, and seethat they leave to-day, definitely. Another staff of servants will arrivethis evening. You will be here to receive them."

  She made no reply. He went away, taking with him the uncomfortableimpression that had lately marked his relations with Florence. Theatmosphere between them always remained heavy and oppressive. Their wordsnever seemed to express the private thoughts of either of them; and theiractions did not correspond with the words spoken. Did not thecircumstances logically demand the immediate dismissal of FlorenceLevasseur as well? Yet Don Luis did not so much as think of it.

  Returning to his study, he at once rang up Mazeroux and, lowering hisvoice so as not to let it reach the next room, he said:

  "Is that you, Mazeroux?"

  "Yes."

  "Has the Prefect placed you at my disposal?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, tell him that I have sacked all my servants and that I have givenyou their names and instructed you to have an active watch kept on them.We must look among them for Sauverand's accomplice. Another thing: askthe Prefect to give you and me permission to spend the night at HippolyteFauville's house."

  "Nonsense! At the house on the Boulevard Suchet?"

  "Yes, I have every reason to believe that something's going tohappen there."

  "What sort of thing?"

  "I don't know. But something is bound to take place. And I insist onbeing at it. Is it arranged?"

  "Right, Chief. Unless you hear to the contrary, I'll meet you at nineo'clock this evening on the Boulevard Suchet."

  Perenna did not see Mlle. Levasseur again that day. He went out in thecourse of the afternoon, and called at the registry office, where hechose some servants: a chauffeur, a coachman, a footman, a cook, and soon. Then he went to a photographer, who made a new copy of Mlle.Levasseur's photograph. Don Luis had this touched up and faked ithimself, so that the Prefect of Police should not perceive thesubstitution of one set of features for another.

  He dined at a restaurant and, at nine o'clock, joined Mazeroux on theBoulevard Suchet.

  Since the Fauville murders the house had been left in the charge of theporter. All the rooms and all the locks had been sealed up, except theinner door of the workroom, of which the police kept the keys for thepurposes of the inquiry.

  The big study looked as it did before, though the papers had been removedand put away and there were no books and pamphlets left on thewriting-table. A layer of dust, clearly visible by the electric light,covered its black leather and the surrounding mahogany.

  "Well, Alexandre, old man," cried Don Luis, when they had made themselvescomfortable, "what do you say to this? It's rather impressive, being hereagain, what? But, this time, no barricading of doors, no bolts, eh? Ifanything's going to happen, on this night of the fifteenth of April,we'll put nothing in our friends' way. They shall have full and entireliberty. It's up to them, this time."

  Though joking, Don Luis was nevertheless singularly impressed, as hehimself said, by the terrible recollection of the two crimes which he hadbeen unable to prevent and by the haunting vision of the two dead bodies.And he also remembered with real emotion the implacable duel which he hadfought with Mme. Fauville, the woman's despair and her arrest.

  "Tell me about her," he said to Mazeroux. "So she tried to kill herself?"

  "Yes," said Mazeroux, "a thoroughgoing attempt, though she had to makeit in a manner which she must have hated. She hanged herself in stripsof linen torn from her sheets and underclothing and twisted together.She had to be restored by artificial respiration. She is out of dangernow, I believe, but she is never left alone, for she swore she would doit again."

  "She has made no confession?"

  "No. She persists in proclaiming her innocence."

  "And what do they think at the public prosecutor's? At the Prefect's?"

  "Why should they change their opinion, Chief? The inquiries confirm everyone of the charges brought against her; and, in particular, it has beenproved beyond the possibility of dispute that she alone can have touchedthe apple and that she can have touched it only between eleven o'clock atnight and seven o'clock in the morning. Now the apple bears theundeniable marks of her teeth. Would you admit that there are two sets ofjaws in the world that leave the same identical imprint?"

  "No, no," said Don Luis, who was thinking of Florence Levasseur. "No,the argument allows of no discussion. We have here a fact that is clearas daylight; and the imprint is almost tantamount to a discovery in theact. But then how, in the midst of all this, are we to explain thepresence of -----"

  "Whom, Chief?"

  "Nobody. I had an idea worrying me. Besides, you see, in all this thereare so many unnatural things, such queer coincidences andinconsistencies, that I dare not count on a certainty which the realityof to-morrow may destroy."

  They went on talking for some time, in a low voice, studying the questionin all its bearings.

  At midnight they switched off the electric light in the chandelier andarranged that each should go to sleep in turn.

  And the hours went by as they had done when the two sat up before, withthe same sounds of belated carriages and motor cars; the same railwaywhistles; the same silence.

  The night passed without alarm or incident of any kind. At daybreak thelife out of doors was resumed; and Don Luis, during his waking hours, hadnot heard a sound in the room except the monotonous snoring of hiscompanion.

  "Can I have been mistaken?" he wondered. "Did the clue in that volume ofShakespeare mean something else? Or did it refer to events of last year,events that took place on the dates set down?"

  In spite of everything, he felt overcome by a strange uneasiness as thedawn began to glimmer through the half-closed shutters. A fortnightbefore, nothing had happened either to warn him; and yet there were twovictims lying near him when he woke.

  At seven o'clock he called out:

  "Alexandre!"

  "Eh? What is it, Chief?"

  "You're not dead?"

  "What's that? Dead? No, Chief; why should I be?"

  "Quite sure?"

  "Well, that's a good 'un! Why not you?"

  "Oh, it'll be my turn soon! Considering the intelligence of thosescoundrels, there's no reason why they should go on missing me."

  They waited an hour longer. Then Perenna opened a window and threw backthe shutter.

  "I say, Alexandre, perhaps you're not dead, but you're certainlyvery green."

  Mazeroux gave a wry laugh:

  "Upon my word, Chief, I confess that I had a bad time of it when I waskeeping watch while you were asleep."

  "Were you afraid?"

  "To the roots of my hair. I kept on thinking that something was going tohappen. But you, too, Chief, don't look as if you had been enjoyingyourself. Were you also--"

  He interrupted himself, on seeing an expression of unbounded astonishmenton Don Luis's face.

  "What's the matter, Chief?"

  "Look! ... on the table ... that let
ter--"

  He looked. There was a letter on the writing-table, or, rather, aletter-card, the edges of which had been torn along the perforationmarks; and they saw the outside of it, with the address, the stamp, andthe postmarks.

  "Did you put that there, Alexandre?"

  "You're joking, Chief. You know it can only have been you."

  "It can only have been I ... and yet it was not I."

  "But then--"

  Don Luis took the letter-card and, on examining it, found that theaddress and the postmarks had been scratched out so as to make itimpossible to read the name of the addressee or where he lived, butthat the place of posting was quite clear, as was the date: Paris, 4January, 19--.

  "So the letter is three and a half months old," said Don Luis.

  He turned to the inside of the letter. It contained a dozen lines and heat once exclaimed:

  "Hippolyte Fauville's signature!"

  "And his handwriting," observed Mazeroux. "I can tell it at a glance.There's no mistake about that. What does it all mean? A letter written byHippolyte Fauville three months before his death?"

  Perenna read aloud:

  "MY DEAR OLD FRIEND:

  "I can only, alas, confirm what I wrote to you the other day: the plot isthickening around me! I do not yet know what their plan is and still lesshow they mean to put it into execution; but everything warns me that theend is at hand. I can see it in her eyes. How strangely she looks at mesometimes!

  "Oh, the shame of it! Who would ever have thought her capable of it?

  "I am a very unhappy man, my dear friend."

  "And it's signed Hippolyte Fauville," Mazeroux continued, "and I declareto you that it's actually in his hand ... written on the fourth ofJanuary of this year to a friend whose name we don't know, though weshall dig him out somehow, that I'll swear. And this friend willcertainly give us the proofs we want."

  Mazeroux was becoming excited.

  "Proofs? Why, we don't need them! They're here. M. Fauville himselfsupplies them: 'The end is at hand. I can see it in her eyes.' 'Her'refers to his wife, to Marie Fauville, and the husband's evidenceconfirms all that we knew against her. What do you say, Chief?"

  "You're right," replied Perenna, absent-mindedly, "you're right; theletter is final. Only--"

  "Only what?"

  "Who the devil can have brought it? Somebody must have entered the roomlast night while we were here. Is it possible? For, after all, we shouldhave heard. That's what astounds me."

  "It certainly looks like it."

  "Just so. It was a queer enough job a fortnight ago. But, still, we werein the passage outside, while they were at work in here, whereas, thistime, we were here, both of us, close to this very table. And, on thistable, which had not the least scrap of paper on it last night, we findthis letter in the morning."

  A careful inspection of the place gave them no clue to put them on thetrack. They went through the house from top to bottom and ascertained forcertain that there was no one there in hiding. Besides, supposing thatany one was hiding there, how could he have made his way into the roomwithout attracting their attention? There was no solving the problem.

  "We won't look any more," said Perenna, "it's no use. In matters of thissort, some day or other the light enters by an unseen cranny andeverything gradually becomes clear. Take the letter to the Prefect ofPolice, tell him how we spent the night, and ask his permission for bothof us to come back on the night of the twenty-fifth of April. There's tobe another surprise that night; and I'm dying to know if we shall receivea second letter through the agency of some Mahatma."

  They closed the doors and left the house.

  While they were walking to the right, toward La Muette, in order to takea taxi, Don Luis chanced to turn his head to the road as they reached theend of the Boulevard Suchet. A man rode past them on a bicycle. Don Luisjust had time to see his clean-shaven face and his glittering eyes fixedupon himself.

  "Look out!" he shouted, pushing Mazeroux so suddenly that the sergeantlost his balance.

  The man had stretched out his hand, armed with a revolver. A shotrang out. The bullet whistled past the ears of Don Luis, who hadbobbed his head.

  "After him!" he roared. "You're not hurt, Mazeroux?"

  "No, Chief."

  They both rushed in pursuit, shouting for assistance. But, at that earlyhour, there are never many people in the wide avenues of this part of thetown. The man, who was making off swiftly, increased his distance, turneddown the Rue Octave-Feuillet, and disappeared.

  "All right, you scoundrel, I'll catch you yet!" snarled Don Luis,abandoning a vain pursuit.

  "But you don't even know who he is, Chief."

  "Yes, I do: it's he."

  "Who?"

  "The man with the ebony stick. He's cut off his beard and shaved hisface, but I knew him for all that. It was the man who was takingpot-shots at us yesterday morning, from the top of his stairs on theBoulevard Richard-Wallace, the one who killed Inspector Ancenis. Theblackguard! How did he know that I had spent the night at Fauville's?Have I been followed then and spied on? But by whom? And why? And how?"

  Mazeroux reflected and said:

  "Remember, Chief, you telephoned to me in the afternoon to give me anappointment. For all you know, in spite of lowering your voice, you mayhave been heard by somebody at your place."

  Don Luis did not answer. He thought of Florence.

  That morning Don Luis's letters were not brought to him by Mlle.Levasseur, nor did he send for her. He caught sight of her several timesgiving orders to the new servants. She must afterward have gone back toher room, for he did not see her again.

  In the afternoon he rang for his car and drove to the house on theBoulevard Suchet, to pursue with Mazeroux, by the Prefect's instructions,a search that led to no result whatever.

  It was ten o'clock when he came in. The detective sergeant and he hadsome dinner together. Afterward, wishing also to examine the home of theman with the ebony stick, he got into his car again, still accompanied byMazeroux, and told the man to drive to the Boulevard Richard-Wallace.

  The car crossed the Seine and followed the right bank.

  "Faster," he said to his new chauffeur, through the speaking-tube. "I'maccustomed to go at a good pace."

  "You'll have an upset one fine day, Chief," said Mazeroux.

  "No fear," replied Don Luis. "Motor accidents are reserved for fools."

  They reached the Place de l'Alma. The car turned to the left.

  "Straight ahead!" cried Don Luis. "Go up by the Trocadero."

  The car veered back again. But suddenly it gave three or four lurches inthe road, took the pavement, ran into a tree and fell over on its side.

  In a few seconds a dozen people were standing round. They broke one ofthe windows and opened the door. Don Luis was the first.

  "It's nothing," he said. "I'm all right. And you, Alexandre?"

  They helped the sergeant out. He had a few bruises and a little pain, butno serious injury.

  Only the chauffeur had been thrown from his seat and lay motionless onthe pavement, bleeding from the head. He was carried into a chemist'sshop and died in ten minutes.

  Mazeroux had gone in with the poor victim and, feeling pretty wellstunned, had himself been given a pick-me-up. When he went back to themotor car he found two policemen entering particulars of the accident intheir notebooks and taking evidence from the bystanders; but the chiefwas not there.

  Perenna in fact had jumped into a taxicab and driven home as fast as hecould. He got out in the square, ran through the gateway, crossed thecourtyard, and went down the passage that led to Mlle. Levasseur'squarters. He leaped up the steps, knocked, and entered without waitingfor an answer.

  The door of the room that served as a sitting-room was opened andFlorence appeared. He pushed her back into the room, and said, in a tonefurious with indignation:

  "It's done. The accident has occurred. And yet none of the old servantscan have prepared it, because they were not there and
because I was outwith the car this afternoon. Therefore, it must have been late in theday between six and nine o'clock, that somebody went to the garage andfiled the steering-rod three quarters through."

  "I don't understand. I don't understand," she said, with a scared look.

  "You understand perfectly well that the accomplice of the ruffians cannotbe one of the new servants, and you understand perfectly well that thejob was bound to succeed and that it did succeed, beyond their hopes.There is a victim, who suffers instead of myself."

  "But tell me what has happened, Monsieur! You frighten me! What accident?What was it?"

  "The motor car was overturned. The chauffeur is dead."

  "Oh," she said, "how horrible! And you think that I can have--Oh, dead,how horrible! Poor man!"

  Her voice grew fainter. She was standing opposite to Perenna, close upagainst him. Pale and swooning, she closed her eyes, staggered.

  He caught her in his arms as she fell. She tried to release herself, buthad not the strength; and he laid her in a chair, while she moaned,repeatedly:

  "Poor man! Poor man!"

  Keeping one of his arms under the girl's head, he took a handkerchief inthe other hand and wiped her forehead, which was wet with perspiration,and her pallid cheeks, down which the tears streamed.

  She must have lost consciousness entirely, for she surrendered herself toPerenna's cares without the least resistance. And he, making no furthermovement, began anxiously to examine the mouth before his eyes, the mouthwith the lips usually so red, now bloodless and discoloured.

  Gently passing one of his fingers over each of them, with a continuouspressure, he separated them, as one separates the petals of a flower; andthe two rows of teeth appeared.

  They were charming, beautifully shaped, and beautifully white; a littlesmaller perhaps than Mme. Fauville's, perhaps also arranged in a widercurve. But what did he know? Who could say that their bite would notleave the same imprint? It was an improbable supposition, an impossiblemiracle, he knew. And yet the circumstances were all against the girl andpointed to her as the most daring, cruel, implacable, and terrible ofcriminals.

  Her breathing became regular. He perceived the cool fragrance of hermouth, intoxicating as the scent of a rose. In spite of himself, he bentdown, came so close, so close that he was seized with giddiness and hadto make a great effort to lay the girl's head on the back of the chairand to take his eyes from the fair face with the half-parted lips.

  He rose to his feet and went.