"Very well," I exclaimed before the magistrate, who had taken me to the screen. "Very well, I agree with your interpretation. It relates to Bérangère. But my uncle was simply wishing to express his love for her and his extreme anxiety on her behalf. In writing his god-daughter's name at the very moment when he is in mortal danger, he shows that he is uneasy about her, that he is recommending her to our care."
"Or that he is accusing her," retorted the magistrate.
Bérangère accused by my uncle! Bérangère capable of sharing in the murder of her god-father! I remember shrugging my shoulders. But there was no reply that I could make beyond protests based upon no actual fact and contradicted by appearances.
All that I said was:
"I fail to see what interest she could have had! . . ."
"A very considerable interest: the exploitation of the wonderful secret which you have mentioned."
"But she is ignorant of the secret!"
"How do you know? She's not ignorant of it, if she is in league with the two accomplices. The manuscript which M. Dorgeroux sent you has disappeared: who was in a better position than she to steal it? However, mark me, I make no assertions. I have my suspicions, that's all; and I'm trying to discover what I can."
But the most minute investigations led to no result. Was Bérangère also a victim of the two criminals?
Her father was written to, at Toulouse. The man Massignac replied that he had been in bed for a fortnight with a sharp attack of influenza, that he would come to Paris as soon as he was well, but that, having had no news of his daughter for years, he was unable to furnish any particulars about her.