rried upstairs to cell number 127 on the third
floor, and the prisoner was locked in alone, while Nibet went about his
duty as usual.

XXVI. A MYSTERIOUS CRIME

Arriving in good time at the little station at Verrieres, where he was
about to take a train to Paris to keep his appointment at the Law
Courts, the old steward Dollon gave his parting instructions to his two
children, who had come to see him off.

"I must, of course, call upon Mme. de Vibray," he said, "and I don't yet
know what time M. Fuselier wants to see me at his office. Anyhow, if I
don't come back to-morrow, I will the next day, without fail. Well,
little ones, I'm just off now, so say good-bye and get home as fast as
you can. It looks to me as if there was going to be a storm, and I
should like to know that you were safe at home."

With heavy creaking of iron wheels, and hoarse blowing off of steam from
the engine, the Paris train drew into the station. The steward gave a
final kiss to his little son and daughter and got into a second-class
carriage.

* * * * *

In a neighbouring village a clock had just struck three.

The storm had been raging since early in the evening, but now it seemed
informed with a fresh fury: the rain was lashing down more fiercely, and
the wind was blowing harder still, making the slender poplars along the
railway line bow and bend before the squalls and assume the most
fantastic shapes, but vaguely shown against the night. The night was
inky black. The keenest eye could make out nothing at all distinctly,
even at the distance of a few yards: the darkness was so dense as to
seem absolutely solid.

Nevertheless, along the railway embankment, a man was making his way
with steady step, seeming not a whit disturbed by the tragic horror of
the storm.

He was a man of about thirty, rather well dressed in a large waterproof
coat, the collar of which, turned up to his ears, hid the lower part of
his face, and a big felt hat with brim turned down protecting him fairly
well from the worst of the weather. The man fought his way against the
wind, which drove into his overcoat with such force that sometimes it
almost stopped his progress, and he trod the stony track without paying
heed to the sorry plight into which it would most surely put the thin
boots he was wearing.

"Awful weather!" he growled: "I don't remember such a shocking night for
years: wind, rain, every conceivable thing! Bu