“It is clear that Patachaud has defended his master, and that the dead man was the murderer.” Andoche tried to cover the dead man’s face, but he was too late. Léocadia Faillot uttered a cry. It was Fadard. A profound, stifling silence ensued. All felt that it was the duty of the magistrate to draw deductions. Finally he spoke. “Is this not the man we questioned this morning?” “Yes, Monsieur. It is Fadard.” “He must, then, be the assassin.” “No!” cried Léocadia, “no, Monsieur. He is a relative of mine. I know him intimately.” “Nevertheless, the gamekeeper’s dog has choked him to death, to avenge his master.” “The keeper’s dog,” ranted the woman, “was mad, and threw himself at the neck of my cousin, who was the first person the cur happened to meet.” While Léocadia was speaking the released Patachaud, once more on his feet, made for the house of his master at a limping pace. Mademoiselle Faillot continued to defend Fadard with violent energy. With a savage movement she pushed away the blacksmith, and falling on her knees beside the dead man lifted his head on her lap and called him tenderly by name. Every one was astounded at her affectionate demonstrations. A strange tenderness was to be detected in her voice and manner, foreign to Léocadia’s character. “I am sorry it gives you pain, Mademoiselle,” said Jean Manant, “but he is Monsieur Barrau’s murderer.” “I tell you he is not,” cried the grief-stricken woman, facing Jean with a glare of hatred. “I have my revenge sooner than I expected,” said Sidonie, inaudibly. “The dog _must_ have been mad. My poor Cyprien! And then to have killed Savin, he must have had a weapon,” continued Léocadia. “He had no gun, you see.” “We must prove that,” said L’Ours. They hunted around in the snow and soon produced a Lefancheux rifle. “But that is Barrau’s,” urged Mademoiselle Faillot. “Very likely,” said Jean, again making a search, this time assisted by Banastre among others. Sidonie was triumphant, and Bruno now dared to hope that Catherine’s innocence would be established as well as his own. Tears of joy sprang to his eyes. All were now searching for the weapon through which Barrau had lost his life. Presently the gendarme Plagnolles returned with Bruno’s gun. It was a primitive weapon, both as to appearance and use, and under the breech the copper cap was covered with verdigris. It was not necessary for a man to be a _connoisseur_ to observe that this weapon had been idle for more than a month. “The young man has deceived us,” said the magistrate. “This gun has not been used recently.” “Ah, here it is,” exclaimed Jean Manant, at this juncture, bringing to light another rifle. This was not so old as Bruno’s, but there was nothing modern about it. Jean Manant quickly detected that one of the cartridges was missing. It became more and more evident that Fadard was the guilty man.