"And though your methods were always fanciful compared with our's, I know enough of your powers to ask you a simple, straight question."
"I am at your service," said Monsieur Dupont.
"You were here on the spot when this crime was committed. Who, or what, smashed the body of that unfortunate woman to pulp in this garden to-night?"
Monsieur Dupont's gigantic form seemed to acquire a new, strange dignity—a solemnity—as though he were in the presence, or speaking, of something before which humanity must bow its head.
"A Destroyer," he whispered. "A Destroyer who strikes with neither fear nor compunction—and passes on without pity or remorse. A Destroyer who is as old as the sins of men, and as young as the futures of their children."
"You always spoke in parables," the inspector exclaimed irritably. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Monsieur Dupont, "that I believe the thing which passed through this crooked garden to-night, leaving death so horribly behind it, is the same thing that has already passed on twice before me, and left the same death in its wake. I cannot tell you any more. Let us both go our own ways, as we have done so many times before. I do not wish to take any credit in this affair. If I am able to prove its connection with my own case, and to solve it, I shall hand the whole matter over to you."
The inspector appeared somewhat relieved.
Monsieur Dupont's eyes were fixed on an unframed photograph of Christine Manderson, which stood on a small cabinet in front of him.
"Please compound a felony," he said softly—and slipped it into his pocket.