and make a "scoop" for his paper.

The news had traveled fast, and his paper had sent him in haste to get
all the details of the affair which could be obtained.

The three men reached M. Rovere's door. Moniche unlocked it and stepped
back, Bernardet, with the reporter at his heels, note book in hand,
entered the room.

CHAPTER III.

NOTHING in the ante-chamber indicated that a tragedy had taken place
there. There were pictures on the walls, pieces of faience, some arms of
rare kinds, Japanese swords and a Malay creese. Bernardet glanced at
them as he passed by.

"He is in the salon," said the concierge, in a low tone.

One of the folding doors stood open, and, stopping on the threshold, in
order to take in the entire aspect of the place, Bernardet saw in the
centre of the room, lying on the floor in a pool of blood, the body of
M. Rovere, clothed in a long, blue dressing gown, bound at the waist
with a heavy cord, which lay in coils on the floor, like a serpent. The
corpse was extended between the two windows, which opened on the
Boulevard de Clichy, and Bernardet's first thought was that it was a
miracle that the victim could have met his death in such a horrible
manner, two steps from the passers-by on the street.

"Whoever struck the blow did it quickly," thought the police officer. He
advanced softly toward the body, casting his eye upon the inert mass and
taking in at a glance the smallest objects near it and the most minute
details. He bent over and studied it thoroughly.

M. Rovere seemed living in his tragic pose. The pale face, with its
pointed and well-trimmed gray beard, expressed in its fierce immobility
a sort of menacing anger. This man of about fifty years had evidently
died cursing some one in his supreme agony. The frightful wound seemed
like a large red cravat, which harmonized strangely with the
half-whitened beard, the end of which was wet with blood.

But what struck Bernardet above everything else, arrested his attention,
and glued him to the spot, was the look, the extraordinary expression in
the eyes. The mouth was open, as if to cry out, the eyes seemed to
menace some one, and the lips about to speak.

They were frightful. Those tragic eyes were wide open, as if transfixed
by fear or fury.

They seemed fathomless, staring, ready to start from their sockets. The
eyebrows above them were black and bristling. They seemed living eyes in
that dead fa