the arms
extended; the head was towards the bed, the feet towards the window. The
body was almost naked. A gash ran almost right across the throat,
leaving the bones exposed. Torrents of blood had saturated the victim's
clothes, and on the carpet round the body a wide stain was still slowly
spreading wider.

M. de Presles stooped over the dead woman.

"What an appalling wound!" he muttered. "The medical evidence will
explain what weapon it was made with; but no doctor is required to point
out the violence of the blow or the fury of the murderer." He turned to
the old steward who, at sight of his mistress, could hardly restrain his
tears. "Nothing has been moved in the room, eh?"

"Nothing, sir."

The magistrate pointed to the escritoire with its open drawers.

"That has not been touched?"

"No, sir."

"I suppose that is where Mme. de Langrune kept her valuables?"

The steward shook his head.

"The Marquise could not have had any large sum of money in the house: a
few hundred francs perhaps for daily expenses, but certainly no more."

"So you do not think robbery was the motive of the crime?"

The steward shrugged his shoulders.

"The murderer may have thought that Mme. de Langrune had money here,
sir. But anyhow he must have been disturbed, because he did not take
away the rings the Marquise had laid upon the dressing-table before she
got into bed."

The magistrate walked slowly round the room.

"This window was open?" he asked.

"The Marquise always left it like that; she liked all the fresh air she
could get."

"Might not the murderer have got in that way?"

The steward shook his head.

"It is most unlikely, sir. See: the windows are fitted outside with a
kind of grating pointing outwards and downwards, and I think that would
prevent anyone from climbing in."

M. de Presles saw that this was so. Continuing his investigation, he
satisfied himself that there was nothing about the furniture in that
room, or in the dressing-room, to show that the murderer had been
through them, except the disorder on and about the little escritoire. At
last he came to the door which opened on to the corridor.

"Ah!" he exclaimed: "this is interesting!" and with a finger he pointed
to the inner bolt on the door, the screws of which were wrenched half
out, showing that an attempt had been made to force the door. "Did Mme.
de Langrune bolt her door every night?" he asked.

"Yes, always," Dollon answered. "She was