did so, fit to crush them, in a short rough clasp. They
would have liked, mutually, to have carried off strips of their flesh
clinging to their fingers. They had naught but this pressure of hands
to appease their feelings. They put all their souls into them, and asked
for nothing more from one another. They waited.

One Thursday evening, before sitting down to the game of dominoes, the
guests of the Raquin family had a chat, as usual. A favourite subject
of conversation was afforded by the experiences of old Michaud who was
plied with questions respecting the strange and sinister adventures
with which he must have been connected in the discharge of his former
functions. Then Grivet and Camille listened to the stories of the
commissary with the affrighted and gaping countenances of small children
listening to "Blue Beard" or "Tom Thumb." These tales terrified and
amused them.

On this particular Thursday, Michaud, who had just given an account of
a horrible murder, the details of which had made his audience shudder,
added as he wagged his head:

"And a great deal never comes out at all. How many crimes remain
undiscovered! How many murderers escape the justice of man!"

"What!" exclaimed Grivet astonished, "you think there are foul creatures
like that walking about the streets, people who have murdered and are
not arrested?"

Olivier smiled with an air of disdain.

"My dear sir," he answered in his dictatorial tone, "if they are not
arrested it is because no one is aware that they have committed a
murder."

This reasoning did not appear to convince Grivet, and Camille came to
his assistance.

"I am of the opinion of M. Grivet," said he, with silly importance. "I
should like to believe that the police do their duty, and that I never
brush against a murderer on the pavement."

Olivier considered this remark a personal attack.

"Certainly the police do their duty," he exclaimed in a vexed tone.
"Still we cannot do what is impossible. There are wretches who have
studied crime at Satan's own school; they would escape the Divinity
Himself. Isn't that so, father?"

"Yes, yes," confirmed old Michaud. "Thus, while I was at Vernon--you
perhaps remember the incident, Madame Raquin--a wagoner was murdered
on the highway. The corpse was found cut in pieces, at the bottom of a
ditch. The authorities were never able to lay hands on the culprit. He
is perhaps still living at this hour. Maybe he is our neighbour, and
perha