“You are forgetting,” interrupted Monsieur Stangerson wearily, “that my daughter had locked and bolted her door, that the door had remained fastened, that we vainly tried to force it open when we heard the noise, and that we were at the door while the struggle between the murderer and my poor child was going on immediately after we heard her stifled cries while she was being held by the fingers that have left their red mark upon her throat. Rapid as the attack was, we were no less rapid in our endeavours to get into the room where the tragedy was taking place.” I rose from my seat and once more examined the door with the greatest care. Then I returned to my place with a despairing gesture. “If the lower panel of the door,” I said, “could be removed without the whole door being necessarily opened, the problem would be solved. But, unfortunately, that last hypothesis is untenable after an examination of the door—it’s of oak, solid and massive. You can see that quite plainly, in spite of the injury done in the attempt to burst it open.” “Ah!” cried Daddy Jacques, “it is an old and solid door that was brought from the château—they don’t make such doors now. We had to use this bar of iron to get it open, all four of us—for the concierge, brave woman she is—helped us. It pains me to find them both in prison now.” Daddy Jacques had no sooner uttered these words of pity and protestation than tears and lamentations broke out from the concierges. I never saw two accused people crying more bitterly. I was extremely disgusted. Even if they were innocent, I could not understand how they could behave like that in the face of misfortune. A dignified bearing at such times is better than tears and groans, which, most often, are feigned. “Now then, enough of that snivelling,” cried Monsieur de Marquet; “and, in your interest, tell us what you were doing under the windows of the pavilion at the time your mistress was being attacked; for you were close to the pavilion when Daddy Jacques met you.” “We were coming to help!” they whined. “If we could only lay hands on the murderer, he’d never taste bread again!” the woman gurgled between her sobs. As before we were unable to get two connecting thoughts out of them. They persisted in their denials and swore, by heaven and all the saints, that they were in bed when they heard the sound of the revolver shot. “It was not one, but two shots that were fired!—You see, you are lying. If you had heard one, you would have heard the other.” “Mon Dieu! Monsieur—it was the second shot we heard. We were asleep when the first shot was fired.” “Two shots _were_ fired,” said Daddy Jacques. “I am certain that _all_ the cartridges were in my revolver. We found afterward that two had been exploded, and we heard two shots behind the door. Was not that so, Monsieur Stangerson?” “Yes,” replied the Professor, “there were two shots, one dull, and the other sharp and ringing.”