"Were the windows open this morning as they are now?"
"Yes."
"Ah! The wretches heard some noise or other in the garden, and they went
and looked out. What did they see? I can't tell. But I do know that what
they saw terrified them, that they threw down the hatchet furiously, and
made off. Look at the position of these cuts--they are slanting of
course--and you will see that the hatchet was thrown by a man who was
standing, not by the cupboard, but close by the open window."
Plantat in his turn knelt down, and looked long and carefully. The
detective was right. He got up confused, and after meditating a moment,
said:
"This perplexes me a little; however--"
He stopped, motionless, in a revery, with one of his hands on his
forehead.
"All might yet be explained," he muttered, mentally searching for a
solution of the mystery, "and in that case the time indicated by the
clock would be true."
M. Lecoq did not think of questioning his companion. He knew that he
would not answer, for pride's sake.
"This matter of the hatchet puzzles me, too," said he. "I thought that
these assassins had worked leisurely; but that can't be so. I see they
were surprised and interrupted."
Plantat was all ears.
"True," pursued M. Lecoq, slowly, "we ought to divide these indications
into two classes. There are the traces left on purpose to mislead
us--the jumbled-up bed, for instance; then there are the real traces,
undesigned, as are these hatchet cuts. But here I hesitate. Is the trace
of the hatchet true or false, good or bad? I thought myself sure of the
character of these assassins: but now--" He paused; the wrinkles on his
face, the contraction of his mouth, betrayed his mental effort.
"But now?" asked M. Plantat.