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counted them; there were thirteen notes of one hundred francs each.
    Instinctively, mechanically, he put the bank-notes in his pocket, rushed down the stairs, drew the bolt, unhooked the chain, closed the door behind him, and fled to the street.
    Charles was an honest man. He had scarcely left the gate, when, cooled by the night air and the rain, he came to a sudden halt. Now, he saw his action in its true light, and it filled him with horror. He hailed a passing cab, and said to the driver:
    “Go to the police-office, and bring the commissary. Hurry! There has been a murder in that house.”
    The cab-driver whipped his horse. Charles wished to return to the house, but found the gate locked. He had closed it himself when he came out, and it could not be opened from the outside. On the other hand, it was useless to ring, as there was no one in the house.
    It was almost an hour before the arrival of the police. When they came, Charles told his story and handed the bank-notes to the commissary. A locksmith was summoned, and, after considerable difficulty, he succeeded in forcing open the garden gate and the vestibule door. The commissary of police entered the room first, but, immediately, turned to Charles and said:
    “You told me that the room was in the greatest disorder.”
    Charles stood at the door, amazed, bewildered; all the furniture had been restored to its accustomed place. The small table was standing between the two windows, the chairs were upright, and the clock was on the centre of the mantel. The debris of the candelabra had been removed.
    “Where is … Monsieur le Baron?” stammered Charles.
    “That’s so!” exclaimed the officer, “where is the victim?”
    He approached the bed, and drew aside a large sheet, under which reposed the Baron d’Hautrec, formerly French Ambassador at Berlin. Over him, lay his military coat, adorned with the Cross of Honor. His features were calm. His eyes were closed.
    “Someone has been here,” said Charles.
    “How did they get in?”
    “I don’t know, but someone has been here during my absence. There was a stiletto on the floor—there! And a handkerchief, stained with blood, on the bed. They are not here now. They have been carried away. And some one has put the room in order.”
    “Who would do that?”
    “The assassin.”
    “But we found all the doors locked.”
    “He must have remained in the house.”
    “Then he must be here yet, as you were in front of the house all the time.”
    Charles reflected a moment, then said, slowly:
    “Yes … of course … I didn’t go away from the gate.”
    “Who was the last person you saw with the baron?”
    “Mademoiselle Antoinette, his secretary.”
    “What has become of her?”
    “I don’t know. Her bed wasn’t occupied, so she must have gone out. I am not surprised at that, as she is young and pretty.”
    “But how could she leave the house?”
    “By the door,” said Charles.
    “But you had bolted and chained it.”
    “Yes, but she must have left before that.”
    “And the crime was committed after her departure?”
    “Of course,” said the servant.
    The house was searched from cellar to garret, but the assassin had fled. How? And when? Was it he or an accomplice who had returned to the scene of the crime and removed everything that might furnish a clue to his identity? Such were the questions the police were called upon to solve.
    The coroner came at seven o’clock; and, at eight o’clock, Mon. Dudouis, the head of the detective service, arrived on the scene. They were followed by the Procureur of the Republic and the investigating magistrate. In addition to these officials, the house was overrun with policemen, detectives, newspaper reporters, photographers, and relatives and acquaintances of the murdered man.
    A thorough search was made; they studied out the position of the corpse according to the information furnished by Charles; they questioned Sister Auguste when she arrived; but they discovered