“Where is it? Can I see it? Is it still in the—the body?” “Oh, no, it had been removed. You would like to see it? To make sure? It would be as well, perhaps, though madame has already identified it. Still—M. Bex, might I trouble you?” “Certainly, M. le juge. I will fetch it immediately.” “Would it not be better to take M. Renauld to the shed?” suggested Giraud smoothly. “Without doubt he would wish to see his father’s body.” The boy made a shivering gesture of negation, and the magistrate, always disposed to cross Giraud whenever possible, replied. “But no—not at present. M. Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us here.” The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack, and wrung him by the hand. Poirot had risen and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that struck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading the mysterious love-letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his first theory of jealousy and a stab in the back. Suddenly the door burst open and the commissary rushed in. “M. le juge! M. le juge!” “But yes. What is it?” “The dagger! It is gone!” “_Comment___—gone?” “Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!” “What?” I cried. “Impossible. Why, only this morning I saw—” The words died on my tongue. But the attention of the entire room was diverted to me. “What is that you say?” cried the commissary. “This morning?” “I saw it there this morning,” I said slowly. “About an hour and a half ago, to be accurate.” “You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?” “I asked the _sergent de ville___ for it.” “And you went there? Why?” I hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to make a clean breast of it. “M. le juge,” I said. “I have committed a grave fault, for which I must crave your indulgence.” “_Eh bien!___ Proceed, monsieur.” “The fact of the matter is,” I said, wishing myself anywhere else than where I was, “that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She displayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and I—well, in short, I took the key to show her the body.” “Ah, _par exemple___,” cried the magistrate indignantly. “But it is a grave fault you have committed there, Captain Hastings. It is altogether most irregular. You should not have permitted yourself this folly.” “I know,” I said meekly. “Nothing that you can say could be too severe, M. le juge.” “You did not invite this lady to come here?” “Certainly not. I met her quite by accident. She is an English lady who happens to be staying in Merlinville, though I was not aware of that until my unexpected meeting with her.” “Well, well,” said the magistrate, softening. “It was most irregular, but the lady is without doubt young and beautiful, _n’est-ce pas?___ What it is to be young! _O jeunesse, jeunesse!___” And he sighed sentimentally. But the commissary, less romantic, and more practical, took up the tale: