The door opened, and in came Bonavent, one of the detectives who had come earlier from the Prefecture. In his hand he carried a scrap of cloth. He saluted Guerchard, and said to M. Formery, “I have just found this scrap of cloth on the edge of the well at the bottom of the garden. The concierge’s wife tells me that it has been torn from Victoire’s dress.” “I feared it,” said M. Formery, taking the scrap of cloth from him. “I feared foul play. We must go to the well at once, send some one down it, or have it dragged.” He was moving hastily to the door, when Guerchard said, in his husky, gentle voice, “I don’t think there is any need to look for Victoire in the well.” “But this scrap of cloth,” said M. Formery, holding it out to him. “Yes, yes, that scrap of cloth,” said Guerchard. And, turning to the Duke, he added, “Do you know if there’s a dog or cat in the house, your Grace? I suppose that, as the fiance of Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin, you are familiar with the house?” “What on earth—” said M. Formery. “Excuse me,” interrupted Guerchard. “But this is important—very important.” “Yes, there is a cat,” said the Duke. “I’ve seen a cat at the door of the concierge’s rooms.” “It must have been that cat which took this scrap of cloth to the edge of the well,” said Guerchard gravely. “This is ridiculous—preposterous!” cried M. Formery, beginning to flush. “Here we’re dealing with a most serious crime—a murder—the murder of Victoire—and you talk about cats!” “Victoire has not been murdered,” said Guerchard; and his husky voice was gentler than ever, only just audible. “But we don’t know that—we know nothing of the kind,” said M. Formery. “I do,” said Guerchard. “You?” said M. Formery. “Yes,” said Guerchard. “Then how do you explain her disappearance?” “If she had disappeared I shouldn’t explain it,” said Guerchard. “But since she has disappeared?” cried M. Formery, in a tone of exasperation. “She hasn’t,” said Guerchard. “You know nothing about it!” cried M. Formery, losing his temper. “Yes, I do,” said Guerchard, with the same gentleness. “Come, do you mean to say that you know where she is?” cried M. Formery. “Certainly,” said Guerchard. “Do you mean to tell us straight out that you’ve seen her?” cried M. Formery. “Oh, yes; I’ve seen her,” said Guerchard. “You’ve seen her—when?” cried M. Formery. Guerchard paused to consider. Then he said gently: “It must have been between four and five minutes ago.” “But hang it all, you haven’t been out of this room!” cried M. Formery. “No, I haven’t,” said Guerchard. “And you’ve seen her?” cried M. Formery. “Yes,” said Guerchard, raising his voice a little. “Well, why the devil don’t you tell us where she is? Tell us!” cried M. Formery, purple with exasperation. “But you won’t let me get a word out of my mouth,” protested Guerchard with aggravating gentleness. “Well, speak!” cried M. Formery; and he sank gasping on to a chair. “Ah, well, she’s here,” said Guerchard.