the exact place where she lay," M. Durant said, indicating with
his finger a dark patch on a little wooden bridge spanning a stream,
within a stone's throw of a tumbledown mill-house, all overgrown with
ivy and lichens. M. Hersant looked round and sniffed the air with his
nostrils.

"There is an air of loneliness about this spot," he remarked, "that in
itself suggests crime. If this were an ordinary murder, one could well
imagine the assassin was aided in his diabolical work by the
configuration of the land which, shelving as it does, slips down into
the narrow valley, so as to preclude any possibility of escape on the
part of the victim. The place seems especially designed by Providence as
a death-trap. Let us have a look at the interior of this building."

"The police have searched it thoroughly," M. Durant said.

"I've no doubt," M. Hersant replied drily. "No one knows better than I
what the thoroughness of the police means."

They entered the premises cautiously, since the roof was in a rickety
condition, and any slight concussion might dislodge an avalanche of
stones and plaster. While M. Durant stood glancing round him rather
impatiently, M. Hersant made a careful scrutiny of the walls.

"Humph," he said at last. "As you so rightly observed, Henri, this is a
remarkable case. I have finished my investigation for to-night. Let us
be going home. To-morrow I should like to visit Marthe's home."

This conversation took place shortly before midnight; some six hours
later all Orskaia was ringing with the news that Marthe Popenkoff's
three children had all been found dead in their beds, their faces and
bodies lacerated in exactly the same manner as their mother's. There
seemed to be no doubt now that Marthe had been murdered, and the
populace cried shame on the police; for the assassin was still at large.
They agreed that the murderer could be no other than Peter Popenkoff,
and the editor of the local paper repeating these statements, Peter
Popenkoff was duly charged with the crimes, and arrested. He was
pronounced guilty by all excepting M. Hersant; and of course M. Hersant
thought him guilty, too; only he liked to think differently from anyone
else.

"I don't want to commit myself," was all they could get out of him. "I
may have something to say later on."

M. Durant laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

"It, undoubtedly, is Peter Popenkoff," he observed. "I had an idea that
he was the culprit all along."

Bu