“I object, monsieur! This is an outrage! What have I to do with all this?” “Madame,” said Giraud brutally, “I am investigating not one murder, but two murders! For all I know you may have committed them both.” “How dare you?” she cried. “How dare you insult me by such a wild accusation! It is infamous.” “Infamous, is it? What about this?” Stooping, he again detached the hair, and held it up. “Do you see this, madame?” He advanced towards her. “You permit that I see whether it matches?” With a cry she started backwards, white to the lips. “It is false—I swear it. I know nothing of the crime—of either crime. Any one who says I do lies! Ah! _mon Dieu___, what shall I do?” “Calm yourself, madame,” said Giraud coldly. “No one has accused you as yet. But you will do well to answer my questions without more ado.” “Anything you wish, monsieur.” “Look at the dead man. Have you ever seen him before?” Drawing nearer, a little of the colour creeping back to her face, Madame Daubreuil looked down at the victim with a certain amount of interest and curiosity. Then she shook her head. “I do not know him.” It seemed impossible to doubt her, the words came so naturally. Giraud dismissed her with a nod of the head. “You are letting her go?” I asked in a low voice. “Is that wise? Surely that black hair is from her head.” “I do not need teaching my business,” said Giraud dryly. “She is under surveillance. I have no wish to arrest her as yet.” Then, frowning, he gazed down at the body. “Should you say that was a Spanish type at all?” he asked suddenly. I considered the face carefully. “No,” I said at last. “I should put him down as a Frenchman most decidedly.” Giraud gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. “Same here.” He stood there for a moment, then with an imperative gesture he waved me aside, and once more, on hands and knees, he continued his search of the floor of the shed. He was marvellous. Nothing escaped him. Inch by inch he went over the floor, turning over pots, examining old sacks. He pounced on a bundle by the door, but it proved to be only a ragged coat and trousers, and he flung it down again with a snarl. Two pairs of old gloves interested him, but in the end he shook his head and laid them aside. Then he went back to the pots, methodically turning them over one by one. In the end, he rose to his feet, and shook his head thoughtfully. He seemed baffled and perplexed. I think he had forgotten my presence. But, at that moment, a stir and bustle was heard outside, and our old friend, the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk and M. Bex, with the doctor behind him, came bustling in. “But this is extraordinary, Mr. Giraud,” cried M. Hautet. “Another crime! Ah, we have not got to the bottom of this case. There is some deep mystery here. But who is the victim this time?” “That is just what nobody can tell us, M. le juge. He has not been identified.” “Where is the body?” asked the doctor. Giraud moved aside a little.