Etienne Rambert was a sport of fate, deserving
pity rather than severity, and the court would be very lenient. Another
man declared that Etienne Rambert had been in an impasse: however fondly
he loved his son he could not but hope that he might commit suicide: if
a friend committed an offence against the laws of honour, the only thing
to do was to put a pistol into his hand. And so on: the only point on
which all were unanimous was their sympathy with the defendant.

But a bell rang sharply; grave and impassive, the jury returned, the
judges filed once more into their seats, Etienne Rambert was led back
into court by the warders. In tense silence the foreman of the jury
spoke:

"In the presence of God and of man, and upon my honour and my conscience
I declare that the answer of the jury is 'no' to all the questions put,
and that is the answer of them all."

It was acquittal!

There was no applause, but yet it seemed as if the words that set the
defendant free had relieved every bosom of an overwhelming dread; the
air seemed easier to breathe; and there was no one there but seemed
physically better and also happier, for hearing a verdict which gave
sanction for the general pity they had felt for the unhappy defendant, a
man of honour and a most unhappy father!

By their verdict the jury had implicitly applauded and commiserated
Etienne Rambert; but he still sat in the dock, broken and prostrated by
terrible distress, sobbing unreservedly and making no effort to restrain
his immeasurable grief.

X. PRINCESS SONIA'S BATH

Four months had passed since Etienne Rambert had been acquitted at the
Cahors Assizes, and the world was beginning to forget the Beaulieu
tragedy as it had already almost forgotten the mysterious murder of Lord
Beltham. Juve alone did not allow his daily occupation to put the two
cases out of his mind. True, he had ceased to make any direct enquiries,
and gave no sign that he still had any interest in those crimes; but the
detective knew very well that in both of them he had to contend with no
ordinary murderer and he was content to remain in the shadow, waiting
and watching, in seeming inactivity, for some slip which should betray
the person or persons who had perpetrated two of the most puzzling
murders that he had ever had to deal with.

It was the end of June, and Paris was beginning to empty. But the spring
had been late and cold that year, and although it was within a couple of
da