M. Boirac took the slip of card and looked at it earnestly.
‘It is she,’ he murmured hoarsely, ‘it is she without a doubt.’
He paused, overcome, and, the others respecting his feelings, there was silence for some moments. Then with a strenuous effort he continued, speaking hardly above a whisper,—
‘Tell me,’ his voice shook as he pronounced the words with difficulty, ‘what makes her look so terrible? And those awful marks at her throat? What are they?’
‘It is with the utmost regret I have to tell you, M. Boirac, that your wife was undoubtedly murdered by strangulation. Further, you must know that she had been dead several days when that photograph was taken.’
M. Boirac dropped into his chair, and sunk his head in his hands.
‘My God!’ he panted. ‘My poor Annette! Though I had no cause to love her, I did, God help me, in spite of everything, I did. I know it now when I have lost her. Tell me,’ he continued in a low tone after another pause, ‘tell me the details.’
‘I fear they are rather harrowing, monsieur,’ said the Chief, with sympathetic sorrow in his tone. ‘A certain cask was noticed by the London police, a detail, with which I need hardly trouble you, having aroused their suspicions. The cask was seized and opened, and the body was found inside.’
The visitor remained with his face buried in his hands. After a few seconds he raised himself and looked at M. Chauvet.
‘Any clue?’ he asked, in a choking tone. ‘Have you any clue to the villain who has done this?’