“So!” Again the Frenchman smiled.
“Now, Count—” Hardy spoke slowly, to make sure that de Morny understood him—“we have irrefutable evidence that you were in the Trevor house on that night. A piece of your property was found there.”
“What is eet?” questioned de Morny, with a rising inflection.
“This—” taking the watch chain out of his pocket.
“Mais c’est impossible!” ejaculated the Frenchman. “I myself sent the chain to ze jeweler to be mended.”
“Exactly, Count—to be mended. Here is the broken link you lost in the Trevor house on the night of February third.”
Spellbound, de Morny gazed at the coin lying in Hardy’s broad palm. Then he reached over, took up the watch chain, laid it on the bare mahogany table, and fitted the broken link into place. In silence the three men watched him, as a cat watches a mouse, but they could learn nothing of the passion burning within him from his set face and brooding eyes. Finally, he broke the long pause to ask:
“And you sink—”
“That the owner of that chain is the murderer of Mrs. Trevor.”
“You are right, sir,” said a low, clear voice back of the detective. “I am he.”