“Is it deep?”
“Three or four yards. The steps are very high—and there are some missing.”
“It is hardly likely,” said M. Filleul, “that the accomplices can have had time to remove the body from the cellar, when they were engaged in carrying off Mlle. de Saint-Véran—during the short absence of the gendarmes. Besides, why should they?—No, in my opinion, the body is here.”
A servant brought them a ladder. Beautrelet let it down through the opening and fixed it, after groping among the fallen fragments. Holding the two uprights firmly:
“Will you go down, M. Filleul?” he asked.
The magistrate, holding a candle in his hand, ventured down the ladder. The Comte de Gesvres followed him and Beautrelet, in his turn, placed his foot on the first rung.
Mechanically, he counted eighteen rungs, while his eyes examined the crypt, where the glimmer of the candle struggled against the heavy darkness. But, at the bottom, his nostrils were assailed by one of those foul and violent smells which linger in the memory for many a long day. And, suddenly, a trembling hand seized him by the shoulder.
“Well, what is it?”
“B-beautrelet,” stammered M. Filleul. “B-beau-trelet—”
He could not get a word out for terror.