“I undertook to investigate this case. I went to Paris, I saw every one who could in the least throw light on it, I went into all the evidence. I said to myself, the case is hopeless; forgive me for having said this even to myself. Well, one day, by chance, in an old file of the _Petit Journal_, I saw the case of an old man named Mesnier; he had been strangled for no apparent reason, and an important witness said that he had seen a man leaving Mesnier’s room shortly after the time the tragedy must have taken place, and he said that he would have sworn that this man was Müller, only for the fact that Müller was known to be dead.” “Ah, ah!” said Freyberger, who was listening intently. “How long after the Lefarge affair was this?” “A few days. Then a few days later a woman was strangled in a field for no apparent motive save murder, and a few days later a child was also killed upon the high road near Paris in a similar manner. I read these things, but though they made an impression upon me, I said to myself, Müller is dead, they can have no relationship to the crime in the Rue de Turbigo. Now I have heard of the Gyde case, it proves that Müller is still alive, and now I feel convinced that these crimes were committed by this demon. Can you forgive me, my friend, for having for a moment doubted the innocence of your father?” “There is nothing to forgive,” said the girl, gazing at the young man with an expression that spoke volumes of her feelings towards him, “and if there were I would forgive you a hundred times, for you have struggled against the disbelief caused by terrible and crushing evidence. What you say proves to me again that this man is alive; but, alas! of what use to us can these other crimes be? He was not caught, they occurred years ago and can give justice no thread.” Freyberger did not seem to fall in with this opinion. He had risen from his chair and was pacing up and down, a sure sign that he was deeply excited or disturbed. “You are sure of what you say?” he said, suddenly turning on Hellier. “Certain.” “You saw these crimes reported in the _Petit Journal_?” “Yes.” “Have you files of the papers?” “No. I read it in Paris. I can supply you with the dates.” “No use; I don’t want to know details. Simply the fact that these crimes were committed suffices me.” “Do you think the fact will be of use to you?” asked the girl. Freyberger laughed hoarsely. He had let his excitement get away with him. In a flash he had seen the means and the method of laying his hand upon the man he wanted. This was what he had been waiting for, just this accidental sidelight. “Chance will give him to us,” he had told the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department, and now he felt that the chance had come. But he was not going to show his hand, especially before Hellier. He wanted to keep the Gyde case to himself till it was completed, just as a sculptor keeps a statue from view till the moment of unveiling.