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him, and the Sister Auguste was warming his bed and preparing the night-lamp. At eleven o’clock, the Sister, who was obliged to return to the convent of her order at that hour, said to the secretary:
    “Mademoiselle Antoinette, my work is finished; I am going.”
    “Very well, Sister.”
    “Do not forget that the cook is away, and that you are alone in the house with the servant.”
    “Have no fear for the Baron. I sleep in the adjoining room and always leave the door open.”
    The Sister left the house. A few moments later, Charles, the servant, came to receive his orders. The Baron was now awake, and spoke for himself.
    “The usual orders, Charles: see that the electric bell rings in your room, and, at the first alarm, run for the doctor. Now, Mademoiselle Antoinette, how far did we get in our reading?”
    “Is Monsieur not going to bed now?”
    “No, no, I will go later. Besides, I don’t need anyone.”
    Twenty minutes later, he was sleeping again, and Antoinette crept away on tiptoe. At that moment, Charles was closing the shutters on the lower floor. In the kitchen, he bolted the door leading to the garden, and, in the vestibule, he not only locked the door but hooked the chain as well. Then he ascended to his room on the third floor, went to bed, and was soon asleep.
    Probably an hour had passed, when he leaped from his bed in alarm. The bell was ringing. It rang for some time, seven or eight seconds perhaps, without intermission.
    “Well!” muttered Charles, recovering his wits, “another of the Baron’s whims.”
    He dressed himself quickly, descended the stairs, stopped in front of the door, and rapped, according to his custom. He received no reply. He opened the door and entered.
    “Ah! No light,” he murmured. “What is that for?”
    Then, in a low voice, he called:
    “Mademoiselle?”
    No reply.
    “Are you there, mademoiselle? What’s the matter? Is Monsieur le Baron ill?”
    No reply. Nothing but a profound silence that soon became depressing. He took two steps forward; his foot struck a chair, and, having touched it, he noticed that it was overturned. Then, with his hand, he discovered other objects on the floor—a small table and a screen. Anxiously, he approached the wall, felt for the electric button, and turned on the light.
    In the centre of the room, between the table and dressing-case, lay the body of his master, the Baron d’Hautrec.
    “What? … It can’t be possible!” he stammered.
    He could not move. He stood there, with bulging eyes, gazing stupidly at the terrible disorder, the overturned chairs, a large crystal candelabra shattered in a thousand pieces, the clock lying on the marble hearthstone, all evidence of a fearful and desperate struggle. The handle of a stiletto glittered, not far from the corpse; the blade was stained with blood. A handkerchief, marked with red spots, was lying on the edge of the bed.
    Charles recoiled with horror: the body lying at his feet extended itself for a moment, then shrunk up again; two or three tremors, and that was the end.
    He stooped over the body. There was a clean-cut wound on the neck from which the blood was flowing and then congealing in a black pool on the carpet. The face retained an expression of extreme terror.
    “Someone has killed him!” he muttered, “someone has killed him!”
    Then he shuddered at the thought that there might be another dreadful crime. Did not the baron’s secretary sleep in the adjoining room! Had not the assassin killed her also! He opened the door; the room was empty. He concluded that Antoinette had been abducted, or else she had gone away before the crime. He returned to the baron’s chamber, his glance falling on the secretary, he noticed that that article of furniture remained intact. Then, he saw upon a table, beside a bunch of keys and a pocketbook that the baron placed there every night, a handful of golden louis. Charles seized the pocketbook, opened it, and found some bank-notes. He