"He has been murdered," Hanaud explained. "Will you fetch the Commissary of the district and a doctor? We will wait here."
Moreau turned on his heel and went downstairs. Hanaud dropped into a chair and stared moodily at the dead body.
"Jean Cladel," he said in a voice of discouragement. "Just when he could have been of a little use in the world! Just when he could have helped us to the truth! It's my fault, too. I oughtn't to have waited until to-night. I ought to have foreseen that this might happen."
"Who can have murdered him?" Jim Frobisher exclaimed.
Hanaud roused himself out of his remorse.
"The man who whispered to us from behind the window," answered Hanaud.
Jim Frobisher felt his mind reeling.
"That's impossible!" he cried.
"Why?" Hanaud asked. "It must have been he. Think it out!" And step by step he told the story as he read it, testing it by speaking it aloud.
"At five minutes past ten a man of mine, still a little out of breath from his haste, comes to us in the Grande Taverne and tells us that Jean Cladel has just reached home. He reached home then at five minutes to ten."