riminals. These poachers, or the gardener who has disappeared,
have something, perhaps, to do with this abominable crime."

Already, for some minutes, M. Plantat had rather awkwardly concealed
some signs of impatience.

"The misfortune is," said he, "that if Guespin is guilty, he will
not be such a fool as to show himself here."

"Oh, we'll find him," returned M. Domini. "Before leaving Corbeil,
I sent a despatch to the prefecture of police at Paris, to ask for
a police agent, who will doubtless be here shortly."

"While waiting," proposed the mayor, "perhaps you would like to see
the scene of the crime?"

M. Domini made a motion as if to rise; then sat down again.

"In fact, no," said he; "we will see nothing till the agent arrives.
But I must have some information concerning the Count and Countess
de Tremorel."

The worthy mayor again triumphed.

"Oh, I can give it to you," answered he quickly, "better than
anybody. Ever since their advent here, I may say, I have been one
of their best friends. Ah, sir, what charming people! excellent,
and affable, and devoted--"

And at the remembrance of all his friends' good qualities, M.
Courtois choked in his utterance.

"The Count de Tremorel," he resumed, "was a man of thirty-four
years, handsome, witty to the tips of his nails. He had sometimes,
however, periods of melancholy, during which he did not wish to see
anybody; but he was ordinarily so affable, so polite, so obliging;
he knew so well how to be noble without haughtiness, that everybody
here esteemed and loved him."

"And the countess?" asked the judge of instruction.

"An angel, Monsieur, an angel on earth! Poor lady! You will soon
see her remains, and surely you would not guess that she has been
the queen of the country, by reason of her beauty."

"Were they rich?"

"Yes; they must have had, together, more than a hundred thousand
francs income--oh, yes, much more; for within five or six months
the count, who had not the bucolic tastes of poor Sauvresy, sold
some lands to buy consols."

"Have they been married long?"

M. Courtois scratched his head; it was his appeal to memory.

"Faith," he answered, "it was in September of last year; just six
months ago. I married them myself. Poor Sauvresy had been dead a
year."

The judge of instruction looked up from his notes with a surprised
air.

"Who is this Sauvresy," he inquired, "of whom you speak?"

Papa Plantat, who was furiously biting his nai