ne else but a madman would have poured out the dirty
water in which he had washed his blackened hands, and would have buried
anywhere that famous breech-loader, of which the prosecution makes such
good use."

"Jacques is safe!" exclaimed M. de Chandore.

M. Seneschal was not so easily won over.

"That is specious pleading," he said. "Unfortunately, we want something
more than a logic conclusion to meet a jury with an abundance of
witnesses on the other side."

"We will find more on our side."

"What do you propose to do?"

"I do not know. I have just told you my first impression. Now I must
study the case, and examine the witnesses, beginning with old Anthony."

M. de Chandore had risen. He said,--

"We can reach Boiscoran in an hour. Shall I send for my carriage?"

"As quickly as possible," replied the young lawyer.

M. de Chandore's servant was back in a quarter of an hour, and announced
that the carriage was at the door. M. de Chandore and M. Folgat took
their seats; and, while they were getting in, the mayor warned the young
Paris lawyer,--

"Above all, be prudent and circumspect. The public mind is already but
too much inflamed. Politics are mixed up with the case. I am afraid of
some disturbance at the burial of the firemen; and they bring me word
that Dr. Seignebos wants to make a speech at the graveyard. Good-by and
good luck!"

The driver whipped the horse, and, as the carriage was going down
through the suburbs, M. de Chandore said,--

"I cannot understand why Anthony did not come to me immediately after
his master had been arrested. What can have happened to him?"

IV.

M. Seneschal's horse was perhaps one of the very best in the whole
province; but M. de Chandore's was still better. In less than fifty
minutes they had driven the whole distance to Boiscoran; and during this
time M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had not exchanged fifty words.

When they reached Boiscoran, the courtyard was silent and deserted.
Doors and windows were hermetically closed. On the steps of the porch
sat a stout young peasant, who, at the sight of the newcomers, rose, and
carried his hand to his cap.

"Where is Anthony?" asked M. de Chandore.

"Up stairs, sir."

The old gentleman tried to open the door: it resisted.

"O sir! Anthony has barricaded the door from the inside."

"A curious idea," said M. de Chandore, knocking with the butt-end of his
whip.

He was knocking fiercer and fiercer, when at last