“No, monsieur.”
“That is odd. I cannot understand it. We know, beyond all question, from the appearance of the body,—the corpse,—that there was a fight, an encounter. Yet you, a wretched sleeper, with only a thin plank of wood between you and the affray, hear nothing, absolutely nothing. It is most extraordinary.”
“I was asleep. I must have been asleep.”
“A light sleeper would certainly be awakened. How can you explain—how can you reconcile that?” The question was blandly put, but the Judge’s incredulity verged upon actual insolence.
“Easily: I had taken a soporific. I always do, on a journey. I am obliged to keep something, sulphonal or chloral, by me, on purpose.”
“Then this, madame, is yours?” And the Judge, with an air of undisguised triumph, produced the small glass vial which M. Floçon had picked up in the sleeping-car near the conductor’s seat.
The Countess, with a quick gesture, put out her hand to take it.
“No, I cannot give it up. Look as near as you like, and say is it yours?”
“Of course it is mine. Where did you get it? Not in my berth?”
“No, madame, not in your berth.”