Bernardet saw that, despite his strong will and his wish to stand there impassive, Jacques Dantin was troubled when, with a heavy sound, the casket glided over the cords down into the grave. He bit the ends of his mustache and his gloved hand made several irresistible, nervous movements. And the look cast into that grave! The look cast at that casket lying in the bottom of that grave! On that casket was a plate bearing the inscription: "Louis Pièrre Rovère." That mute look, rapid and grief-stricken, was cast upon that open casket, which contained the body--the gash across its throat, dissected, mutilated; the face with those dreadful eyes, which had been taken from their orbits, and, after delivering up their secret, replaced! They now defiled past the grave, and Dantin, the first, with a hand which trembled, sprinkled upon the casket those drops of water which are for our dead the last tears. Ah! but he was pale, almost livid; and how he trembled--this man with a stern face! Bernardet noticed the slightest trace of emotion. He approached in his turn and took the holy water sprinkler; then, as he turned away, desirous of catching up with M. Dantin, he heard his name called, and, turning, saw Paul Rodier, whose face was all smiles. "Well! Monsieur Bernardet, what new?" he asked. The tall young man had a charming air. "Nothing new," said the agent. "You know that this murder has aroused a great deal of interest?" "I do not doubt it." "Leon Luzarche is enchanted. Yes, Luzarche, the novelist. He had begun a novel, of which the first instalment was published in the same paper which brought out the first news of 'The Crime of the Boulevard de Clichy,' and as the paper has sold, sold, sold, he thinks that it is his story which has caused the immense and increased sales. No one is reading 'l'Ange-Gnome,' but the murder. All novelists ought to try to have a fine assassination published at the same time as their serials, so as to increase the sales of the paper. What a fine collaboration, Monsieur! Pleasantry, Monsieur! Have you any unpublished facts?" "No." "Not one? Not a trace?" "Nothing," Bernardet replied. "Oh, well! I--I have some, Monsieur--but it will surprise you. Read my paper! Make the papers sell." "But"--began the officer. "See here! Professional secret! Only, have you thought of the woman in black who came occasionally to see the ex-Consul?" "Certainly." "Well, she must be made to come back--that woman in black. It is not an easy thing to do. But I believe that I have ferreted her out. Yes, in one of the provinces." "Where?" "Professional secret," repeated the reporter, laughing. "And if M. Ginory asks for your professional secret?" "I will answer him as I answer you. Read my paper! Read _Lutèce_!" "But the Judge, to him"---- "Professional secret," said Paul Rodier for the third time. "But what a romance it would make! The Woman in Black!"