M. Formery sat upright, almost beside himself, glaring furiously at Guerchard:
“What do you stand there pulling all our legs for?” he almost howled.
“Look here,” said Guerchard.
He walked across the room to the fireplace, pushed the chairs which stood bound together on the hearth-rug to one side of the fireplace, and ran the heavy fire-screen on its casters to the other side of it, revealing to their gaze the wide, old-fashioned fireplace itself. The iron brazier which held the coals had been moved into the corner, and a mattress lay on the floor of the fireplace. On the mattress lay the figure of a big, middle-aged woman, half-dressed. There was a yellow gag in her mouth; and her hands and feet were bound together with blue cords.
“She is sleeping soundly,” said Guerchard. He stooped and picked up a handkerchief, and smelt it. “There’s the handkerchief they chloroformed her with. It still smells of chloroform.”
They stared at him and the sleeping woman.
“Lend a hand, inspector,” he said. “And you too, Bonavent. She looks a good weight.”
The three of them raised the mattress, and carried it and the sleeping woman to a broad couch, and laid them on it. They staggered under their burden, for truly Victoire was a good weight.
M. Formery rose, with recovered breath, but with his face an even richer purple. His eyes were rolling in his head, as if they were not under proper control.
He turned on the inspector and cried savagely, “You never examined the fireplace, inspector!”