s that a well-mounted
collection of beautiful women would be very much more interesting to me
than the finest collection of beautiful beetles. But if I have the one,
I am made a member of a Royal Society--and if I have the other, I am
executed. And the only reason for that is that the human beings make the
laws, and not the beetles."

The car swung round a sharp corner, and the inspector's amazement was
interrupted by the sudden necessity of keeping his position. Monsieur
Dupont continued slowly.

"But the monstrousness of this case is not that three people have been
killed--but that three people have been more than killed. It is
monstrous because we have none of the simple dignity of the primitive
slayer, and all the morbid excesses of the modern despoiler. While it
might be an entirely respectable thing to kill a woman to preserve her
beauty, it is an entirely monstrous thing to kill her to destroy it.
That is the only reason why the collector of beetles and butterflies is
not the most cold-blooded of murderers. That is the only----"

"What in the name of all that's unholy," gasped the inspector, "are you
going to say next?"

Monsieur Dupont leant forward as the car stopped, and opened the door.

"Next," he replied gravely, "I am going to inform you that we have
arrived at Paddington, and request you to get out."

CHAPTER XXX

MONSIEUR DUPONT'S TASK

He bought the tickets, and conducted the inspector to a train.

"Where are we going?" demanded the bewildered officer, as Monsieur
Dupont settled himself in a corner, and produced his cigar case.

"We are going," said Monsieur Dupont, "to a delightful little village,
hidden away in the hills of the country--far from the sins of
cities--where they do not even know that Paris is the center of the
world."

Fortunately they had the carriage to themselves. Monsieur Dupont smoked
in silence for some minutes.

"I will explain to you," he began, at last, "how I came to be concerned
in this affair. The reason was that, after my retirement, I had the
honor to marry a cousin of Colette d'Orsel. The brother of my wife had
been one of the party at Nice at the time of the crime, and, though
there was not the least evidence against him, the police had allowed it
to be known that they looked upon him as the guilty person. You know how
ready certain people are to discuss and even to credit the wildest
theories--and you know also that after sufficient discussion the