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Updated: June 9, 2025
Don Luis thereupon gave a minute account of events, after which M. Desmalions reflected for a few moments and said: "There is one point on which we want to be informed. When you entered this room at half-past two this morning and sat down beside M. Fauville, was there nothing to tell you that he was dead?" "Nothing, Monsieur le Préfet.
"You can never tell," suggested Mazeroux. A few minutes more passed. M. Desmalions had sat down. The others also were seated. No one spoke. And suddenly they all sprang up, with one movement, and the same expression of surprise. A bell had rung. They at once heard where the sound came from. "The telephone," M. Desmalions muttered. He took down the receiver. "Hullo! Who are you?"
"We found this one in the safe," said M. Desmalions. "It forms part of a ring belonging to a person whom we know." "Well," she said eagerly, "you must find that person." "He is here," said the Prefect, pointing to Don Luis, who had been standing some way off and who had not been noticed by Mme. Fauville.
Or fear rather of the dread weapon which she was about to deliver against herself? In any case nothing accused her with greater directness than this last hesitation, which was incomprehensible if she was innocent, but clear as day if she was guilty! "What are you afraid of, Madame?" asked M. Desmalions. "Nothing, nothing," she said, shuddering.
I expect he's in the infirmary getting something to pull him together." "Why, what's the matter with him?" "He struck me as being in a queer state rather ill." "How do you mean?" The secretary described his interview with Inspector Vérot. "And you say he left a letter for me?" said M. Desmalions with a worried air. "Where is it?" "Among the papers, Monsieur le Préfet."
I have received a telegram from Italy to tell me that Señor Caceres is seriously ill. However, his presence was not indispensable. There is no one lacking, therefore except those, alas, whose claims this meeting would gladly have sanctioned, that is to say, Cosmo Mornington's heirs." "There is one other person absent, Monsieur le Préfet." M. Desmalions looked up. The speaker was Don Luis.
And it was almost a feeling of pity that was entertained for this woman against whom all the circumstances seemed to be conspiring, and who defended herself so badly that her cross-examiner hesitated to press her yet further. M. Desmalions, in fact, wore an irresolute air, as if the victory had been too easy, and as if he had some scruple about pursuing it.
Or would you rather have poison? Die, will you, you hussy! Die with your veins on fire as I am doing, I who hate you hate you hate you!" M. Desmalions ceased, amid the silent astonishment of all those present. He had great difficulty in reading the concluding lines, the writing having become almost wholly shapeless and illegible.
"There would be an undeniable connection between that person's presence in the house and the two crimes that had been committed." "Consequently, we should have the right at least to suspect the person?" "Yes." "That is your view?" "Decidedly." M. Desmalions produced a piece of tissue paper from his pocket and took from it a little blue stone, which he displayed.
Once again a thorough search had been made during the afternoon, with no better results than before. But it was decided that all the men should keep awake. If the letter was delivered anywhere in the big room, they wanted to know and they meant to know who brought it. The police do not recognize miracles. At twelve o'clock M. Desmalions had coffee served to his subordinates.
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