"And my friends—"
"On such occasions as monsieur's friends called while he was out, I was in the studio as long as they remained."
"Yes, of course. When did you sweep under this couch?"
"About three weeks ago, monsieur," was the hesitating reply.
"No less than that?"
"No less, monsieur."
Jack was satisfied. There was no room for suspicion, he told himself. The man's word was to be relied upon. But by what agency, then, had the canvas disappeared? How could a thief break into the studio without leaving some trace of his visit, in the shape of a broken window or a forced lock? There had been plenty of opportunities, it is true—nights when Alphonse had been at home and Jack in town.
"Has monsieur lost something?"
"Yes, a large painting has been stolen," Jack replied.
He went to the door and examined the lock from the outside, by the aid of matches, though with no hope of finding anything. But a surprising and ominous discovery rewarded him at once. In and around the key-hole, sticking to it, were some minute fragments of wax.