“We will leave things as they are as much as possible,” he explained. “It pleases the examining magistrate. _Eh bien___, do you notice anything else?” I was forced to shake my head. “Look at his hands.” I did. The nails were broken and discoloured, and the skin was hard. It hardly enlightened me as much as I should have liked it to have done. I looked up at Giraud. “They are not the hands of a gentleman,” he said, answering my look. “On the contrary his clothes are those of a well-to-do man. That is curious, is it not?” “Very curious,” I agreed. “And none of his clothing is marked. What do we learn from that? This man was trying to pass himself off as other than he was. He was masquerading. Why? Did he fear something? Was he trying to escape by disguising himself? As yet we do not know, but one thing we do know—he was as anxious to conceal his identity as we are to discover it.” He looked down at the body again. “As before there are no finger-prints on the handle of the dagger. The murderer again wore gloves.” “You think, then, that the murderer was the same in both cases?” I asked eagerly. Giraud became inscrutable. “Never mind what I think. We shall see. Marchaud!” The _sergent de ville___ appeared at the doorway. “Monsieur?” “Why is Madame Renauld not here? I sent for her a quarter of an hour ago?” “She is coming up the path now, monsieur, and her son with her.” “Good. I only want one at a time, though.” Marchaud saluted and disappeared again. A moment later he reappeared with Mrs. Renauld. “Here is Madame.” Giraud came forward with a curt bow. “This way, madame.” He led her across, and then, standing suddenly aside. “Here is the man. Do you know him?” And as he spoke, his eyes, gimlet-like, bored into her face, seeking to read her mind, noting every indication of her manner. But Mrs. Renauld remained perfectly calm—too calm, I felt. She looked down at the corpse almost without interest, certainly without any sign of agitation or recognition. “No,” she said. “I have never seen him in my life. He is quite a stranger to me.” “You are sure?” “Quite sure.” “You do not recognize in him one of your assailants, for instance?” “No,” she seemed to hesitate, as though struck by the idea. “No, I do not think so. Of course they wore beards—false ones the examining magistrate thought, but still—no.” Now she seemed to make her mind up definitely. “I am sure neither of the two was this man.” “Very well, madame. That is all, then.” She stepped out with head erect, the sun flashing on the silver threads in her hair. Jack Renauld succeeded her. He, too, failed to identify the man, in a completely natural manner. Giraud merely grunted. Whether he was pleased or chagrined I could not tell. He merely called to Marchaud: “You have got the other there?” “Yes, monsieur.” “Bring her in then.” “The other” was Madame Daubreuil. She came indignantly, protesting with vehemence.