M. Floçon was an experienced detective, and he knew so well that he ought to be on his guard against the most plausible suggestions, that he did not like to make too much of these discoveries. Still, he was distinctly satisfied, if not exactly exultant, and he went back towards the station with a strong predisposition against the Contessa di Castagneto.
Just outside the waiting-room, however, his assistant, Galipaud, met him with news which rather dashed his hopes, and gave a new direction to his thoughts.
The lady’s maid was not to be found.
“Impossible!” cried the Chief, and then at once suspicion followed surprise.
“I have looked, monsieur, inquired everywhere; the maid has not been seen. She certainly is not here.”
“Did she go through the barrier with the other passengers?”
“No one knows; no one remembers her; not even the conductor. But she has gone. That is positive.”
“Yet it was her duty to be here; to attend to her service. Her mistress would certainly want her—has asked for her! Why should she run away?”
This question presented itself as one of infinite importance, to be pondered over seriously before he went further into the inquiry.
Did the Countess know of this disappearance?
She had asked imploringly for her maid. True, but might that not be a blind? Women are born actresses, and at need can assume any part, convey any impression. Might not the Countess have wished to be dissociated from the maid, and therefore have affected complete ignorance of her flight?
“I will try her further,” said M. Floçon to himself.
But then, supposing that the maid had taken herself off of her own accord? Why was it? Why had she done so? Because—because she was afraid of something. If so, of what? No direct accusation could be brought against her on the face of it. She had not been in the sleeping-car at the time of the murder, while the Countess as certainly was; and, according to strong presumption, in the very compartment where the deed was done. If the maid was afraid, why was she afraid?
Only on one possible hypothesis. That she was either in collusion with the Countess, or possessed of some guilty knowledge tending to incriminate the Countess and probably herself. She had run away to avoid any inconvenient questioning tending to get her mistress into trouble, which would react probably on herself.
“We must press the Countess on this point closely; I will put it plainly to M. le Juge,” said the detective, as he entered the private room set apart for the police authorities, where he found M. Beaumont le Hardi, the instructing judge, and the Commissary of the Quartier (arrondissement).
A lengthy conference followed among the officials. M. Floçon told all he knew, all he had discovered, gave his views with all the force and fluency of a public prosecutor, and was congratulated warmly on the progress he had made.
“I agree with you, sir,” said the instructing judge: “we must have in the Countess first, and pursue the line indicated as regards the missing maid.”
“I will fetch her, then. Stay, what can be going on in there?” cried M. Floçon, rising from his seat and running into the outer waiting-room, which, to his surprise and indignation, he found in great confusion.
The guard who was on duty was struggling, in personal conflict almost, with the English General. There was a great hubbub of voices, and the Countess was lying back half-fainting in her chair.
“What’s all this? How dare you, sir?”
This to the General, who now had the man by the throat with one hand and with the other was preventing him from drawing his sword. “Desist—forbear! You are opposing legal authority; desist, or I will call in assistance and will have you secured and removed.”
The little Chief’s blood was up; he spoke warmly, with all the force and dignity of an official who sees the law outraged.
“It is entirely the fault of this ruffian of yours; he has behaved most brutally,” replied Sir Charles, still holding him tight.
“Let him go, monsieur; your behaviour is inexcusable. What! you, a military officer of the highest rank, to assault a sentinel! For shame! This is unworthy of you!”
“He deserves to be scragged, the beast!” went on the General, as with one sharp turn of the wrist he threw the guard off, and sent him flying nearly across the room, where, being free at last, the Frenchman drew his sword and brandished it threateningly—from a distance.
But M. Floçon interposed with uplifted hand and insisted upon an explanation.
“It is just this,” replied Sir Charles, speaking fast and with much fierceness: “that lady there—poor thing, she is ill, you can see that for yourself, suffering, overwrought; she asked for a glass of water, and this brute, triple brute, as you say in French, refused to bring it.”
“I could not leave the room,” protested the guard. “My orders were precise.”
“So I was going to fetch the water,” went on the General angrily, eying the guard as though he would like to make another grab at him, “and this fellow interfered.”
“Very properly,” added M. Floçon.
“Then why didn’t he go himself, or call some one? Upon my word, monsieur, you are not to be complimented upon your people, nor your methods. I used to think that a Frenchman was gallant, courteous, especially to ladies.”
The Chief looked a little disconcerted, but remembering what he knew against this particular lady, he stiffened and said severely, “I am responsible for my conduct to my superiors, and not to you. Besides, you appear to forget your position. You are here, detained—all of you”—he spoke to the whole room—“under suspicion. A ghastly crime has been perpetrated—by some one among you—”
“Do not be too sure of that,” interposed the irrepressible General.
“Who else could be concerned? The train never stopped after leaving Laroche,” said the detective, allowing himself to be betrayed into argument.
“Yes, it did,” corrected Sir Charles, with a contemptuous laugh; “shows how much you know.”
Again the Chief looked unhappy. He was on dangerous ground, face to face with a new fact affecting all his theories,—if fact it was, not mere assertion, and that he must speedily verify. But nothing was to be gained—much, indeed, might be lost—by prolonging this discussion in the presence of the whole party. It was entirely opposed to the French practice of investigation, which works secretly, taking witnesses separately, one by one, and strictly preventing all intercommunication or collusion among them.
“What I know or do not know is my affair,” he said, with an indifference he did not feel. “I shall call upon you, M. le Général, for your statement in due course, and that of the others.” He bowed stiffly to the whole room. “Every one must be interrogated. M. le Juge is now here, and he proposes to begin, madame, with you.”
The Countess gave a little start, shivered, and turned very pale.
“Can’t you see she is not equal to it?” cried the General, hotly. “She has not yet recovered. In the name of—I do not say chivalry, for that would be useless—but of common humanity, spare madame, at least for the present.”
“That is impossible, quite impossible. There are reasons why Madame la Comtesse should be examined first. I trust, therefore, she will make an effort.”
“I will try, if you wish it.” She rose from her chair and walked a few steps rather feebly, then stopped.
“No, no, Countess, do not go,” said Sir Charles, hastily, in English, as he moved across to where she stood and gave her his hand. “This is sheer cruelty, sir, and cannot be permitted.”
“Stand aside!” shouted M. Floçon; “I forbid you to approach that lady, to address her, or communicate with her. Guard, advance, do your duty.”
But the guard, although his sword was still out of its sheath, showed great reluctance to move. He had no desire to try conclusions again with this very masterful person, who was, moreover, a general; as he had seen service, he had a deep respect for generals, even of foreign growth.
Meanwhile the General held his ground and continued his conversation with the Countess, speaking still in English, thus exasperating M. Floçon, who did not understand the language, almost to madness.
“This is not to be borne!” he cried. “Here, Galipaud, Block;” and when his two trusty assistants came rushing in, he pointed furiously to the General. “Seize him, remove him by force if necessary. He shall go to the violon—to the nearest lock-up.”
The noise attracted also the Judge and the Commissary, and there were now six officials in all, including the guard, all surrounding the General, a sufficiently imposing force to overawe even the most recalcitrant fire-eater.
But now the General seemed to see only the comic side of the situation, and he burst out laughing.
“What, all of you? How many more? Why not bring up cavalry and artillery, horse, foot, and guns?” he asked, derisively. “All to prevent one old man from offering his services to one weak woman! Gentlemen, my regards!”
“Really, Charles, I fear you are going too far,” said his brother the clergyman, who, however, had been manifestly enjoying the whole scene.
“Indeed, yes. It is not necessary, I assure you,” added the Countess, with tears of gratitude in her big brown eyes. “I am most touched, most thankful. You are a true soldier, a true English gentleman, and I shall never forget your kindness.” Then she put her hand in his with a pretty, winning gesture that was reward enough for any man.
Meanwhile, the Judge, the senior official present, had learned exactly what had happened, and he now addressed the General with a calm but stern rebuke.
“Monsieur will not, I trust, oblige us to put in force the full power of the law. I might, if I chose, and as I am fully entitled, commit you at once to Mazas, to keep you in solitary confinement. Your conduct has been deplorable, well calculated to traverse and impede justice. But I am willing to believe that you were led away, not unnaturally, as a gallant gentleman,—it is the characteristic of your nation, of your cloth,—and that on more mature consideration you will acknowledge and not repeat your error.”
M. Beaumont le Hardi was a grave, florid, soft-voiced person, with a bald head and a comfortably-lined white waistcoat; one who sought his ends by persuasion, not force, but who had the instincts of a gentleman, and little sympathy with the peremptory methods of his more inflammable colleague.
“Oh, with all my heart, monsieur,” said Sir Charles, cordially. “You saw, or at least know, how this has occurred. I did not begin it, nor was I the most to blame. But I was in the wrong, I admit. What do you wish me to do now?”
“Give me your promise to abide by our rules,—they may be irksome, but we think them necessary,—and hold no further converse with your companions.”
“Certainly, certainly, monsieur,—at least after I have said one word more to Madame la Comtesse.”
“No, no, I cannot permit even that—”
But Sir Charles, in spite of the warning finger held up by the Judge, insisted upon crying out to her, as she was being led into the other room:
“Courage, dear lady, courage. Don’t let them bully you. You have nothing to fear.”
Any further defiance of authority was now prevented by her almost forcible removal from the room.
