"But yes, certainly that will also be locked; I have a pass-key, however, for these outer doors." A few minutes of silent waiting and voices were heard within, then the door was opened by the concierge, whose usually rosy face looked a yellowish white. "Bon dieu!" she whispered, "the outside door was unlocked, and here is the key which opens both, in this lock. I swear that the day before yesterday I locked the outside door carefully; nor have I ascended this stair since."
"Let us examine this room carefully," said the chef, with a shade of additional gravity.
The search was most thorough, every little cupboard, every nook, the stove, the oven, an old box, every inch of the dingy empty kitchen was minutely scrutinized,—all present assisting. Suddenly a speck of white in a dark corner attracted Glynn's eye. He picked it up. It was a morsel of fine lace entangled with a knot of the narrowest black velvet ribbon, from which dangled a broken end. With a sickening sensation of horror and dread Glynn picked up this infinitesimal yet eloquent suggestion of a struggle, and silently handed it to M. Claude.
"Ha!" exclaimed that functionary, gazing at it with some eagerness; then he added, "Mademoiselle changed her toilet too hastily."
"Good God!" cried Lambert, "she wore just such a velvet string as this through the lace of her dress; I noticed it!"—and so had Glynn. With what bitterness he recalled his admiration of the creamy whiteness of her neck contrasted with the black line surrounding it. "Do you—do you think she is murdered?" continued Lambert in an agonized whisper, staring wildly at the lace.
"No, I do not," said M. Claude, apparently somewhat moved by the father's intense misery. "I do not suppose her life would be attempted by any one, unless indeed there are some circumstances in her or your history with which I am unacquainted. But I believe what may be as bitter as her death to you,—that she has gone with her own free consent."
"And that I never can believe," cried Lambert. "She—the sweetest, most loving, obedient child man ever had!"
"Even so," said the detective with a tinge of sadness.
"The affair might have occurred under chloroform," said the commissaire in a low submissive tone. "A resolute practiced villain meets her ascending the stairs; a handkerchief saturated with chloroform suddenly wrapped round her face renders her helpless. She is carried through this empty apartment, her dress changed while she is still insensible." An irrepressible groan from Glynn made the chef de la sûreté look at him. "They carry her down-stairs," continued the commissaire.
"And then," interrupted the concierge shrilly, "they are caught! how can any one get out without calling me? My faith! do you think I neglect my duties, or that a great warrior like my husband, now en retraite, and employed at the Gare St. Lazare, would permit half a dozen such brigands to pass?"