"She might describe him to me accurately, and even paint him for me," said Dantin quickly. "She can neither insinuate that I know him nor prove to you that I am his accomplice. I do not know who he is nor from where he comes. I was even ignorant of his existence myself a quarter of an hour ago." "I have only to remand you to your cell," said the Magistrate. "We will hunt for the other man." Dantin, in his turn, said in an ironical tone: "And you will do well!" M. Ginory made a sign. The guards led out their prisoner. Then, looking at the Chief, while Bernardet still remained standing like a soldier near the window, the Magistrate said: "Until there are new developments, Dantin will say nothing. We must look for the man in the sombrero." "Necessarily!" said M. Leriche. "The needle! The needle! And the hay stack!" thought Bernardet. The Chief, smiling, turned toward him. "That belongs to you, Bernardet." "I know it well," said the little man, "but it is not easy. Oh! It is not easy at all." "Bah! you have unearthed more difficult things than that. Do it up brown! There is only one clew--the hat"---- "They are not uncommon, those hats, Monsieur Leriche--they are not very bad hats. But yet it is a clew--if we live, we shall see." He stood motionless between the bookcase and the window, like a soldier carrying arms, while M. Ginory, shaking his head, said to the chief: "And this Dantin, what impression did he make on you?" "He is a little crack-brained!" replied the Chief. "Certainly! But guilty--you believe him guilty?" "Without doubt!" "Would you condemn him?" he quickly asked as he gazed searchingly at the Chief. M. Leriche hesitated. "Would you condemn him?" M. Ginory repeated, insistently. The Chief still hesitated a moment, glanced toward the impassive Bernardet without being able to read his face, and he said: "I do not know." CHAPTER XIII. "I DO not know," thought Bernardet as he returned home. "What one knows very well indeed, what one cannot deny, oh, that would be impossible! is that on the retina of the dead man's eye, reflected there at the supreme moment of the agony, is found the image of this Dantin, his face, his features; this man, in a word, denounced by this witness which is worth all other witnesses in the world! This assassinated man cast a last look upon his murderer as he called for aid; a last cry for 'Help!' in the death rattle!--and this man says: 'I do not know!' But the dead man knew; and the kodak knows, also. It has no passion, no anger, no hate, because it registers what passes; fixes that which is fleeting!"