"You have committed a military offense, Corporal Horton. But your story has impressed me. It can be easily verified. I will do what I can for you at Headquarters. It was your Croix de Guerre, you see."
"Thank you, sir," said Jim, "but it looks as though I'm in a bad position here. Do you think I could have done this horrible thing, sir? Do you?"
"No," said the Captain, "but sit tight, Corporal. I think you'll find that things will turn out all right."
What did the man mean? Jim Horton followed his neatly fitting uniform out of the cell with his gaze and then, more mystified than ever at this mingling of good fortune and bad, sank again upon his cot to try and think it out.
But he was no sooner seated than the man who had done the most to put him where he was, Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire de Police, again entered the cell. His manner during the examination by the Juge d'Instruction in the morning had been aggressive—Horton's ordeal had been most unpleasant, the French counterpart of what he had heard of in his own country as the "Third Degree." But Monsieur Matthieu's ugly face was now almost kindly, its expression quite calm. And while Horton wondered what was the meaning of the visit the Commissaire explained.
"Evidence has been introduced into this case, Monsieur, which somewhat changes its complexion."
"Ah! You have found Tricot? Or Quinlevin?"
"No—not yet, Monsieur. But we have hopes. The evidence came from another quarter. We believe that the apache committed this crime."
Horton couldn't restrain a gasp of relief.
"It is only what I told you, Monsieur."