“And Jacques,” Dionysia asked eagerly,—­“how did he look?”

“Master, madam, laughed contemptuously.”

“Did you speak to him?” asked M. Folgat.

“Oh, no, sir!  M. Galpin would not allow me.”

“And did you have time to look at the gun?”

“I could but just glance at the lock.”

“And what did you see?”

The brow of the old servant grew still darker, as he replied sadly,—­

“I saw that I had done well to keep silent.  The lock is black.  Master must have used his gun since I cleaned it.”

Grandpapa Chandore and M. Folgat exchanged looks of distress.  One more hope was lost.

“Now,” said the young lawyer, “tell me how M. de Boiscoran usually charged his gun.”

“He used cartridges, sir, of course.  They sent him, I think, two thousand with the gun,—­some for balls, some with large shot, and others with shot of every size.  At this season, when hunting is prohibited, master could shoot nothing but rabbits, or those little birds, you know, which come to our marshes:  so he always loaded one barrel with tolerably large shot, and the other with small-shot.”

But he stopped suddenly, shocked at the impression which his statement seemed to produce.  Dionysia cried,—­

“That is terrible!  Every thing is against us!”

M. Folgat did not give her time to say any more.  He asked,—­

“My dear Anthony, did M. Galpin take all of your master’s cartridges away with him?”

“Oh, no! certainly not.”

“Well, you must instantly go back to Boiscoran, and bring me three or four cartridges of every number of shot.”

“All right,” said the old man.  “I’ll be back in a short time.”

He started immediately; and, thanks to his great promptness, he reappeared at seven o’clock, at the moment when the family got up from dinner, and put a large package of cartridges on the table.

M. de Chandore and M. Folgat had quickly opened some of them; and, after a few failures, they found two numbers of shot which seemed to correspond exactly to the samples left them by the doctor.

“There is an incomprehensible fatality in all this,” said the old gentleman in an undertone.

The young lawyer, also, looked discouraged.

“It is madness,” he said, “to try to establish M. de Boiscoran’s innocence without having first communicated with him.”

“And if you could do so to-morrow?” asked Dionysia.

“Then, madam, he might give us the key to this mystery, which we are in vain trying to solve; or, at least, he might tell us the way to find it all out.  But that is not to be thought of.  M. de Boiscoran is held in close confinement, and you may rest assured M. Galpin will see to it that no communication is held with his prisoner.”

“Who knows?” said the young girl.

And immediately she drew M. de Chandore aside into one of the little card-rooms adjoining the parlor, and asked him,—­