"Yes, in the dust on the floor, we found the marks of steps, numerous foot marks: we have made tracings of them."
"My steps, evidently," thought Fandor. But what he said was:
"What, in short, is your view of the general position, Monsieur Havard?"
"I am very much bothered about it. For my part, I think we are once again faced by another of Jacques Dollon's crimes. This wretch, after having attempted to assassinate his sister, has learned that we were going to search mademoiselle's room. He then made arrangements to steal this trunk, by pretending to be a police inspector, as you know; then he brought the trunk to this flat, examined its contents thoroughly, and having some special interest in the sugar refiner's death, he managed to get him to come to the flat, and there assassinated him, leaving his dead body in front of this trunk, where it was bound to be seen; all this he did in order to tangle the traces and perplex those on his track...."
"But how do you explain the fact of Jacques Dollon being so simple as to leave the imprints of his hand everywhere?... Deuce take it, this individual is at liberty: he reads the papers.... He knows that Monsieur Bertillon is tracing him!... So great a criminal would certainly be on his guard!"
"Of course! Such a successful criminal as Dollon has shown himself to be, must have resources at his disposal, which allow him to laugh at the police. He does not trouble to cover his tracks; it is enough for him that he should escape us."
As Fandor could not suppress a smile, the chief of the detective force added:
"Oh, we shall finish by arresting Dollon, have no fear! So far he has quite extraordinary luck in his favour, but the luck will turn, and we shall put our hand on his collar!"
"I certainly hope you may. But what are you going to do now?"
The two had stopped on the edge of the pavement, and were talking without paying any attention to the passers-by who rubbed shoulders with them. The well-known journalist and the important police official were unrecognised.