"I am the comrade of these unfortunate men, and I am not ashamed to own it," I cried, "for all, all of them, though poor, are honest. Not one of them is capable of committing the crime they are accused of."
Once more there was silence. The great Berthe began to sob under her breath. The provost seemed to reflect. At last, looking at me sternly, he said:
"Where do you pretend you will find the assassin for us?"
"Here, sir, in this house, and, to convince you, I only ask to speak one moment to you in private."
"Come," said he, rising.
He motioned to the chief detective, Madoc, to follow us, and we went out.
I ran quickly up-stairs; the others close behind me. On the third story, I stopped before the window, and pointed out the tracks in the snow.
"There are the assassin's footsteps," said I. "This is where he passes every evening. Night before last he came at two o'clock in the morning. Last night he was here; no doubt he will return to-night."
The provost and Madoc looked at the footsteps for several moments without saying a word.
"And how do you know these are the footprints of the murderer?" asked the chief of police, incredulously.