"I've no doubt," M. Hersant replied drily. "No one knows better than I what the thoroughness of the police means."
They entered the premises cautiously, since the roof was in a rickety condition, and any slight concussion might dislodge an avalanche of stones and plaster. While M. Durant stood glancing round him rather impatiently, M. Hersant made a careful scrutiny of the walls.
"Humph," he said at last. "As you so rightly observed, Henri, this is a remarkable case. I have finished my investigation for to-night. Let us be going home. To-morrow I should like to visit Marthe's home."
This conversation took place shortly before midnight; some six hours later all Orskaia was ringing with the news that Marthe Popenkoff's three children had all been found dead in their beds, their faces and bodies lacerated in exactly the same manner as their mother's. There seemed to be no doubt now that Marthe had been murdered, and the populace cried shame on the police; for the assassin was still at large. They agreed that the murderer could be no other than Peter Popenkoff, and the editor of the local paper repeating these statements, Peter Popenkoff was duly charged with the crimes, and arrested. He was pronounced guilty by all excepting M. Hersant; and of course M. Hersant thought him guilty, too; only he liked to think differently from anyone else.
"I don't want to commit myself," was all they could get out of him. "I may have something to say later on."
M. Durant laughed and shrugged his shoulders.
"It, undoubtedly, is Peter Popenkoff," he observed. "I had an idea that he was the culprit all along."
But a day or two later, Peter Popenkoff was found dead in prison with the skin on his face and hands all torn to shreds.
"There! Didn't we say so?" cried the inconsequent mob. "Peter Popenkoff was innocent. One of the police themselves is the murderer."
"Come, you must acknowledge that we are on the right track now—it is one of the police," M. Durant said to his friend.