trayed him."

M. Lecoq had not thought fit to speak as yet. Like a doctor at a
sick bedside, he wanted to be sure of his diagnosis. He had
returned to the mantel, and again pushed forward the hands of the
clock. It sounded, successively, half-past eleven, then twelve,
then half-past twelve, then one.

As he moved the hands, he kept muttering:

"Apprentices--chance brigands! You are malicious, parbleu, but
you don't think of everything. You give a push to the hands, but
don't remember to put the striking in harmony with them. Then
comes along a detective, an old rat who knows things, and the dodge
is discovered."

M. Domini and Plantat held their tongues. M. Lecoq walked up to
them.

"Monsieur the Judge," said he, "is perhaps now convinced that the
deed was done at half-past ten."

"Unless," interrupted M. Plantat, "the machinery of the clock has
been out of order."

"That often happens," added M. Courtois. "The clock in my
drawing-room is in such a state that I never know the time of day."

M. Lecoq reflected.

"It is possible," said he, "that Monsieur Plantat is right. The
probability is in favor of my theory; but probability, in such an
affair, is not sufficient; we must have certainty. There happily
remains a mode of testing the matter--the bed; I'll wager it is
rumpled up." Then addressing the mayor, "I shall need a servant to
lend me a hand."

"I'll help you," said Plantat, "that will be a quicker way."

They lifted the top of the bed and set it on the floor, at the
same time raising the curtains.

"Hum!" cried M. Lecoq, "was I right?"

"True," said M. Domini, surprised, "the bed is rumpled."

"Yes; and yet no one has lain in it."

"But--" objected M. Courtois.

"I am sure of what I say," interrupted the detective. "The sheets,
it is true, have been thrown back, perhaps someone has rolled about
in the bed; the pillows have been tumbled, the quilts and curtains
ruffled, but this bed has not the appearance of having been slept
in. It is, perhaps, more difficult to rumple up a bed than to put
it in order again. To make it up, the coverings must be taken off,
and the mattresses turned. To disarrange it, one must actually lie
down in it, and warm it with the body. A bed is one of those
terrible witnesses which never misguide, and against which no counter
testimony can be given. Nobody has gone to bed in this--"

"The countess," remarked Plantat, "was dressed; but the count might
have gone to bed