Juve read over another clause: "I will tell him it is deposited in a safe place."
Feverishly Juve took up the garments trailing on the ground, carefully explored the fabric, made a minute search.
"It is impossible," he thought, "that I should not find another document. The beginning of this confession—I must have it!"
All at once he stopped short in his search. "Curse it all!" And he pointed out to M. Fuselier, disguised in the lining of a loose pocket in the petticoat—a fresh hiding place, but torn and alas! empty.
This woman had split up her confession into several portions. And if she was killed it was certainly to strip her of these compromising papers. Well, the murderer had attained his object.
"Look, Fuselier, this empty 'cache' is the proof of what I put forward, and chance alone allowed the page concealed in the collar of this bodice to fall into my hands."
Long did the detective still grope and ponder, heedless of the questions the professor and the magistrate kept asking him. He rose at last, and with a distracted gesture took the arm of M. Fuselier, and dragged him before the stone slab on which the corpse, but recently unknown, smiled a ghastly smile.
"M. Fuselier, the dead woman has spoken. She is Lady Beltham. This is the body of Lady Beltham!"
The magistrate recoiled in horror. He murmured:
"But who then can Doctor Chaleck be? Who can Loupart be?"