The two men went into every room in the house, disturbed Mr. Desrolles in a comfortable slumber, and surveyed his bedchamber with eyes which took in every detail. There was very little for them to see: a tent bedstead draped with flabby faded chintz, a rickety washstand, a small chest of drawers with a looking-glass on the top, and three odd chairs, picked up at humble auctions. After inspecting Mr. Desrolles’ rooms and overhauling his limited wardrobe, they looked in upon Mrs. Rawber, and roused that talented woman’s ire by opening all her drawers and cupboards, and peering curiously into the same, whereby they beheld more mysteries of theatrical attire than ought to be seen by the public eye. ‘You don’t suppose I did it, I hope?’ protested Mrs. Rawber, in her grandest tragedy voice. ‘No, ma’am, but we’re obliged to do our duty,’ answered the police officer. ‘It’s only a form.’ ‘It’s a very disagreeable form,’ said Mrs. Rawber, ‘and if you tallow-grease my Lady Macbeth dresses, I shall expect you to make them good.’ The man in plain clothes committed himself to no opinion, nor did he enter upon any discussion as to the motive of a crime apparently so motiveless. He made his notes of the plain facts of the case, and went away with the sergeant. ‘What am I to do about laying her out?’ asked Mrs. Evitt of the doctor. ‘I wouldn’t lay a finger upon her for a hundred pounds.’ ‘I’ll send round a nurse from the workhouse,’ said the doctor, after a moment’s thought. ‘They’re not easily scared.’ Half an hour later the workhouse nurse came, a tall, bony woman, who executed her horrible task in a business-like manner, which testified to the strength of her nerve and the variety of her experience. By five o’clock in the morning all was done, and La Chicot lay with meekly folded hands under clean white linen--the heavy lids closed for ever on the once lovely eyes, the raven hair parted on the classic brow. ‘She’s the handsomest corpse I’ve laid out for the last ten years,’ said the nurse, ‘and I think she does me credit. If you’ve got a kettle on the bile, mum, and can give me a cup of tea, I shall be thankful for it; and I think a teaspoonful of sperrits in it would do me good. I’ve been up all night with a fractious pauper in the small-pox ward.’ ‘Oh, lor!’ cried Mrs. Evitt, with an alarmed countenance. ‘You’ve been vaccinated, of course, mum,’ said the nurse cheerfully. ‘You don’t belong to none of them radical anti-vaccinationists, I’m sure. And as to catching complaints of that kind, mum, it’s only your pore-spirited, nervous people as does it. I never have no pity for such weak mortals. I look down on ’em too much.’ CHAPTER XVIII. WHAT THE DIAMONDS WERE WORTH.