embled, sprinkled upon the casket those drops of water which are
for our dead the last tears. Ah! but he was pale, almost livid; and how
he trembled--this man with a stern face! Bernardet noticed the slightest
trace of emotion. He approached in his turn and took the holy water
sprinkler; then, as he turned away, desirous of catching up with M.
Dantin, he heard his name called, and, turning, saw Paul Rodier, whose
face was all smiles.

"Well! Monsieur Bernardet, what new?" he asked. The tall young man had a
charming air.

"Nothing new," said the agent.

"You know that this murder has aroused a great deal of interest?"

"I do not doubt it."

"Leon Luzarche is enchanted. Yes, Luzarche, the novelist. He had begun a
novel, of which the first instalment was published in the same paper
which brought out the first news of 'The Crime of the Boulevard de
Clichy,' and as the paper has sold, sold, sold, he thinks that it is his
story which has caused the immense and increased sales. No one is
reading 'l'Ange-Gnome,' but the murder. All novelists ought to try to
have a fine assassination published at the same time as their serials,
so as to increase the sales of the paper. What a fine collaboration,
Monsieur! Pleasantry, Monsieur! Have you any unpublished facts?"

"No."

"Not one? Not a trace?"

"Nothing," Bernardet replied.

"Oh, well! I--I have some, Monsieur--but it will surprise you. Read my
paper! Make the papers sell."

"But"--began the officer.

"See here! Professional secret! Only, have you thought of the woman in
black who came occasionally to see the ex-Consul?"

"Certainly."

"Well, she must be made to come back--that woman in black. It is not an
easy thing to do. But I believe that I have ferreted her out. Yes, in
one of the provinces."

"Where?"

"Professional secret," repeated the reporter, laughing.

"And if M. Ginory asks for your professional secret?"

"I will answer him as I answer you. Read my paper! Read _Lutece_!"

"But the Judge, to him"----

"Professional secret," said Paul Rodier for the third time. "But what a
romance it would make! The Woman in Black!"

While listening, Bernardet had not lost sight of M. Dantin, who, in the
centre of one of the avenues, stood looking at the slowly moving crowd
of curiosity seekers. He seemed to be vainly searching for a familiar
face. He looked haggard. Whether it was grief or remorse, he certainly
showed violent emotion. The police officer divine