This closet door was the merest sheathing, flush with the wall and covered with the same paper, after the fashion of the ancient Parisian appartements, and had nothing tangible to the grasp save the key, which was now on the inside. Jean tried to jostle this out of place by inserting other keys, but unsuccessfully.
"Sacré!" he cried, in despair; "but we'll see!"
And he hastily brought a combination poker and stove-lifter from the kitchen, and, inserting the sharp end in the crack near the lock, gave the improvised "jimmy" a vigorous wrench. The light wood-work flew in splinters.
At the same moment the interior of the closet was thus suddenly exposed to the uninterrupted view.
Jean recoiled in astonishment that was almost terror. If he had been confronted with the suspended corpse of Mlle. Fouchette he could have scarcely been more startled.
For Mlle. Fouchette was not there!
The cold sweat started out of him. He felt among his clothes,—passed his hand over the three remaining walls. They appeared solid enough.
"Que diable! but where is she, then?" he muttered.
He was dazed,—rendered incapable of reasoning. He went around vaguely examining his rooms, peering behind curtains and even moving bits of furniture, as if Mlle. Fouchette were the elusive collar-button and might have rolled out of sight somewhere among the furniture.
"Peste! this is astonishing!"