"But it seems to me," remarked the judge, "that we have already important materials to aid your task. It is clear that Guespin, if he is not an accomplice, at least knew something about the crime."
M. Lecoq had recourse to the portrait in the lozenge-box. It was more than a glance, it was a confidence. He evidently said something to the dear defunct, which he dared not say aloud.
"I see that Guespin is seriously compromised," resumed he. "Why didn't he want to tell where he passed the night? But, then, public opinion is against him, and I naturally distrust that."
The detective stood alone in the middle of the room, the rest, at his request, remained at the threshold, and looking keenly about him, searched for some explanation of the frightful disorder of the apartment.
"Fools!" cried he, in an irritated tone, "double brutes! Because they murder people so as to rob them, is no reason why they should break everything in the house. Sharp folks don't smash up furniture; they carry pretty picklocks, which work well and make no noise. Idiots! one would say—"
He stopped with his mouth wide open.
"Eh! Not so bungling, after all, perhaps."
The witnesses of this scene remained motionless at the door, following, with an interest mingled with surprise, the detective's movements.
Kneeling down, he passed his flat palm over the thick carpet, among the broken porcelain.
"It's damp; very damp. The tea was not all drunk, it seems, when the cups were broken."