I declare
to you that it's actually in his hand ... written on the fourth of
January of this year to a friend whose name we don't know, though we
shall dig him out somehow, that I'll swear. And this friend will
certainly give us the proofs we want."

Mazeroux was becoming excited.

"Proofs? Why, we don't need them! They're here. M. Fauville himself
supplies them: 'The end is at hand. I can see it in her eyes.' 'Her'
refers to his wife, to Marie Fauville, and the husband's evidence
confirms all that we knew against her. What do you say, Chief?"

"You're right," replied Perenna, absent-mindedly, "you're right; the
letter is final. Only--"

"Only what?"

"Who the devil can have brought it? Somebody must have entered the room
last night while we were here. Is it possible? For, after all, we should
have heard. That's what astounds me."

"It certainly looks like it."

"Just so. It was a queer enough job a fortnight ago. But, still, we were
in the passage outside, while they were at work in here, whereas, this
time, we were here, both of us, close to this very table. And, on this
table, which had not the least scrap of paper on it last night, we find
this letter in the morning."

A careful inspection of the place gave them no clue to put them on the
track. They went through the house from top to bottom and ascertained for
certain that there was no one there in hiding. Besides, supposing that
any one was hiding there, how could he have made his way into the room
without attracting their attention? There was no solving the problem.

"We won't look any more," said Perenna, "it's no use. In matters of this
sort, some day or other the light enters by an unseen cranny and
everything gradually becomes clear. Take the letter to the Prefect of
Police, tell him how we spent the night, and ask his permission for both
of us to come back on the night of the twenty-fifth of April. There's to
be another surprise that night; and I'm dying to know if we shall receive
a second letter through the agency of some Mahatma."

They closed the doors and left the house.

While they were walking to the right, toward La Muette, in order to take
a taxi, Don Luis chanced to turn his head to the road as they reached the
end of the Boulevard Suchet. A man rode past them on a bicycle. Don Luis
just had time to see his clean-shaven face and his glittering eyes fixed
upon himself.

"Look out!" he shouted, pushing Mazeroux so suddenly that the ser