“And now,” he concluded, “I have just ordered the most exact search, so that doubtless we shall find the count’s body.  Five men, detailed by me, and all the people of the house, are searching the park.  If their efforts are not crowned with success, I have here some fishermen who will drag the river.”

M. Domini held his tongue, only nodding his head from time to time, as a sign of approbation.  He was studying, weighing the details told him, building up in his mind a plan of proceeding.

“You have acted wisely,” said he, at last.  “The misfortune is a great one, but I agree with you that we are on the track of the criminals.  These poachers, or the gardener who has disappeared, have something, perhaps, to do with this abominable crime.”

Already, for some minutes, M. Plantat had rather awkwardly concealed some signs of impatience.

“The misfortune is,” said he, “that if Guespin is guilty, he will not be such a fool as to show himself here.”

“Oh, we’ll find him,” returned M. Domini.  “Before leaving Corbeil, I sent a despatch to the prefecture of police at Paris, to ask for a police agent, who will doubtless be here shortly.”

“While waiting,” proposed the mayor, “perhaps you would like to see the scene of the crime?”

M. Domini made a motion as if to rise; then sat down again.

“In fact, no,” said he; “we will see nothing till the agent arrives.  But I must have some information concerning the Count and Countess de Tremorel.”

The worthy mayor again triumphed.

“Oh, I can give it to you,” answered he quickly, “better than anybody.  Ever since their advent here, I may say, I have been one of their best friends.  Ah, sir, what charming people! excellent, and affable, and devoted—­”

And at the remembrance of all his friends’ good qualities, M. Courtois choked in his utterance.

“The Count de Tremorel,” he resumed, “was a man of thirty-four years, handsome, witty to the tips of his nails.  He had sometimes, however, periods of melancholy, during which he did not wish to see anybody; but he was ordinarily so affable, so polite, so obliging; he knew so well how to be noble without haughtiness, that everybody here esteemed and loved him.”

“And the countess?” asked the judge of instruction.

“An angel, Monsieur, an angel on earth!  Poor lady!  You will soon see her remains, and surely you would not guess that she has been the queen of the country, by reason of her beauty.”

“Were they rich?”

“Yes; they must have had, together, more than a hundred thousand francs income—­oh, yes, much more; for within five or six months the count, who had not the bucolic tastes of poor Sauvresy, sold some lands to buy consols.”

“Have they been married long?”

M. Courtois scratched his head; it was his appeal to memory.

“Faith,” he answered, “it was in September of last year; just six months ago.  I married them myself.  Poor Sauvresy had been dead a year.”