“Do you think that death could have occurred at this moment?” the commissioner asked, turning to Saniel.
“No; I think it must have been between five and six o’clock.”
“It is wrong for the commissioner to suspect Monsieur Florentin,” cried the concierge. “He is a good young man, incapable of harming a fly. And then, there is a good reason why death could not have taken place between three o’clock and half-past; it is that Monsieur Caffie’s lamp was lighted, and you know the poor gentleman was not a man to light his lamp in broad daylight, looking as he was—”
She stopped abruptly, striking her forehead with her hand.
“That is what I remember, and you will see that Monsieur Florentin has nothing to do with this affair. As I went upstairs at a quarter past five to light my gas, some one came behind me and rang Monsieur Caffie’s bell, and rapped three or four times at equal distances, which is the signal to open the door.”
Again Saniel’s pen stopped, and he was obliged to lean his hand on the table to prevent its trembling.
“Who was it?”
“Ah! That I do not know,” she answered. “I did not see him, but I heard him, the step of a man. It was this rascal who killed him, you may be sure.”
This seemed likely.
“He went out while I was on the stairs; he knew the customs of the house.”