“Well, there was a thief here last night, or several of them, for poor Ortog is half strangled; but the rascals did not get away scot free. The one who came through the little path to the pavilion was badly bitten; his tracks can be followed in blood for a long distance a very long distance.”
“Then,” asked Marsa, quickly, “he escaped? He is not dead?”
“No, certainly not. He got away.”
“Ah! Thank heaven for that!” cried the Tzigana, her mind relieved of a heavy weight.
“Mademoiselle is too good,” said the gardener. “When a man enters, like that, another person’s place, he exposes himself to be chased like a rabbit, or to be made mincemeat of for the dogs. He must have had big muscles to choke Ortog, the poor beast!—not to mention that Duna’s teeth are broken. But the scoundrel got his share, too; for he left big splashes of blood upon the gravel.”
“Blood!”
“The most curious thing is that the little gate, to which there is no key, is unlocked. They came in and went out there. If that idiot of a Saboureau, whom General Vogotzine discharged—and rightly too, Mademoiselle—were not dead, I should say that he was at the bottom of all this.”
“There is no need of accusing anyone,” said Marsa, turning away.
The gardener returned to the neighborhood of the pavilion, and, examining the red stains upon the ground, he said: “All the same, this did not happen by itself. I am going to inform the police!”