“But it was the wife who had the fortune.”

“That wasn’t the case here.  I have been posting myself up.  M. de Tremorel had a hundred thousand crowns, the remains of a colossal fortune saved by his friend Sauvresy; and his wife by the marriage contract made over a half million to him.  A man can live in ease anywhere on eight hundred thousand francs.  Besides, the count was master of all the funds of the estate.  He could sell, buy, realize, borrow, deposit, and draw funds at will.”

The doctor had nothing to reply.  M. Lecoq went on, speaking with a certain hesitation, while his eyes interrogated M. Plantat.

“We must find the reasons of this murder, and the motives of the assassin’s terrible resolution—­in the past.  Some crime so indissolubly linked the count and countess, that only the death of one of them could free the other.  I suspected this crime the first thing this morning, and have seen it all the way through; and the man that we have just shut up in there—­Robelot—­who wanted to murder Monsieur Plantat, was either the agent or the accomplice of this crime.”

The doctor had not been present at the various episodes which, during the day at Valfeuillu and in the evening at the mayor’s, had established a tacit understanding between Plantat and Lecoq.  He needed all the shrewdness he possessed to fill up the gaps and understand the hidden meanings of the conversation to which he had been listening for two hours.  M. Lecoq’s last words shed a ray of light upon it all, and the doctor cried, “Sauvresy!”

“Yes—­Sauvresy,” answered M. Lecoq.  “And the paper which the murderer hunted for so eagerly, for which he neglected his safety and risked his life, must contain the certain proof of the crime.”

M. Plantat, despite the most significant looks and the direct provocation to make an explanation, was silent.  He seemed a hundred leagues off in his thoughts, and his eyes, wandering in space, seemed to follow forgotten episodes in the mists of the past.  M. Lecoq, after a brief pause, decided to strike a bold blow.

“What a past that must have been,” exclaimed he, “which could drive a young, rich, happy man like Hector de Tremorel to plan in cool blood such a crime, to resign himself to disappear after it, to cease to exist, as it were to lose all at once his personality, his position, his honor and his name!  What a past must be that which drives a young girl of twenty to suicide!”

M. Plantat started up, pale, more moved than he had yet appeared.

“Ah,” cried he, in an altered voice, “you don’t believe what you say!  Laurence never knew about it, never!”

The doctor, who was narrowly watching the detective, thought he saw a faint smile light up his mobile features.  The old justice of the peace went on, now calmly and with dignity, in a somewhat haughty tone: 

“You didn’t need tricks or subterfuge, Monsieur Lecoq, to induce me to tell what I know.  I have evinced enough esteem and confidence in you to deprive you of the right to arm yourself against me with the sad secret which you have surprised.”