wise.”
He entered the cabinet; but, after a few seconds, and without any sign of astonishment, he asked:
“Did you take it, my dear?”
“What? … No, I have not taken anything.”
“You must have moved it.”
“Not at all. I have not even opened that door.”
He appeared at the door, disconcerted, and stammered, in a scarcely intelligible voice:
“You haven’t … It wasn’t you? … Then …”
She hastened to his assistance, and, together, they made a thorough search, throwing the boxes to the floor and overturning the piles of linen. Then the count said, quite discouraged:
“It is useless to look any more. I put it here, on this shelf.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, no, it was on this shelf—nowhere else.”
They lighted a candle, as the room was quite dark, and then carried out all the linen and other articles that the room contained. And, when the room was emptied, they confessed, in despair, that the famous necklace had disappeared. Without losing time in vain lamentations, the countess notified the commissary of police, Mon. Valorbe, who came at once, and, after hearing their story, inquired of the count:
“Are you sure that no one passed through your chamber during the night?”
“Absolutely sure, as I am a very light sleeper. Besides, the chamber door was bolted, and I remember unbolting it this morning when my wife rang for her maid.”
“And there is no other entrance to the cabinet?”
“None.”
“No windows?”
“Yes, but it is closed up.”
“I will look at it.”
Candles were lighted, and Mon. Valorbe observed at once that the lower half of the window was covered by a large press which was, however, so narrow that it did not touch the casement on either side.
“On what does this window open?”
“A small inner court.”
“And you have a floor above this?”
“Two; but, on a level with the servant’s floor, there is a close grating over the court. That is why this room is so dark.”
When the press was moved, they found that the window was fastened, which would not have been the case if anyone had entered that way.
“Unless,” said the count, “they went out through our chamber.”
“In that case, you would have found the door unbolted.”
The commissary considered the situation for a moment, then asked the countess:
“Did any of your servants know that you wore the necklace last evening?”
“Certainly; I didn’t conceal the fact. But nobody knew that it was hidden in that cabinet.”
“No one?”
“No one … unless …”
“Be quite sure, madam, as it is a very important point.”
She turned to her husband, and said:
“I was thinking of Henriette.”
“Henriette? She didn’t know where we kept it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Who is this woman Henriette?” asked Mon. Valorbe.
“A school-mate, who was disowned by her family for marrying beneath her. After her husband’s death, I furnished an apartment in this house for her and her son. She is clever with her needle and has done some work for me.”
“What floor is she on?”
“Same as ours … at the end of the corridor … and I think … the window of her kitchen …”
“Opens on this little court, does it not?”
“Yes, just opposite ours.”
Mon. Valorbe then asked to see Henriette. They went to her apartment; she was sewing, whilst her son Raoul, about six years old, was sitting beside her, reading. The commissary was surprised to see the wretched apartment that had been provided for the woman. It consisted of one room without a fireplace, and a very small room that served as a kitchen. The commissary proceeded to question her. She appeared to be overwhelmed on learning of the theft. Last evening she had herself dressed the countess and placed the necklace upon her shoulders.
“Good God!” she exclaimed, “it can’t be possible!”
“And you have no idea? Not the least suspicion? Is it possible that the thief may have passed through your room?”
She
He entered the cabinet; but, after a few seconds, and without any sign of astonishment, he asked:
“Did you take it, my dear?”
“What? … No, I have not taken anything.”
“You must have moved it.”
“Not at all. I have not even opened that door.”
He appeared at the door, disconcerted, and stammered, in a scarcely intelligible voice:
“You haven’t … It wasn’t you? … Then …”
She hastened to his assistance, and, together, they made a thorough search, throwing the boxes to the floor and overturning the piles of linen. Then the count said, quite discouraged:
“It is useless to look any more. I put it here, on this shelf.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“No, no, it was on this shelf—nowhere else.”
They lighted a candle, as the room was quite dark, and then carried out all the linen and other articles that the room contained. And, when the room was emptied, they confessed, in despair, that the famous necklace had disappeared. Without losing time in vain lamentations, the countess notified the commissary of police, Mon. Valorbe, who came at once, and, after hearing their story, inquired of the count:
“Are you sure that no one passed through your chamber during the night?”
“Absolutely sure, as I am a very light sleeper. Besides, the chamber door was bolted, and I remember unbolting it this morning when my wife rang for her maid.”
“And there is no other entrance to the cabinet?”
“None.”
“No windows?”
“Yes, but it is closed up.”
“I will look at it.”
Candles were lighted, and Mon. Valorbe observed at once that the lower half of the window was covered by a large press which was, however, so narrow that it did not touch the casement on either side.
“On what does this window open?”
“A small inner court.”
“And you have a floor above this?”
“Two; but, on a level with the servant’s floor, there is a close grating over the court. That is why this room is so dark.”
When the press was moved, they found that the window was fastened, which would not have been the case if anyone had entered that way.
“Unless,” said the count, “they went out through our chamber.”
“In that case, you would have found the door unbolted.”
The commissary considered the situation for a moment, then asked the countess:
“Did any of your servants know that you wore the necklace last evening?”
“Certainly; I didn’t conceal the fact. But nobody knew that it was hidden in that cabinet.”
“No one?”
“No one … unless …”
“Be quite sure, madam, as it is a very important point.”
She turned to her husband, and said:
“I was thinking of Henriette.”
“Henriette? She didn’t know where we kept it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Who is this woman Henriette?” asked Mon. Valorbe.
“A school-mate, who was disowned by her family for marrying beneath her. After her husband’s death, I furnished an apartment in this house for her and her son. She is clever with her needle and has done some work for me.”
“What floor is she on?”
“Same as ours … at the end of the corridor … and I think … the window of her kitchen …”
“Opens on this little court, does it not?”
“Yes, just opposite ours.”
Mon. Valorbe then asked to see Henriette. They went to her apartment; she was sewing, whilst her son Raoul, about six years old, was sitting beside her, reading. The commissary was surprised to see the wretched apartment that had been provided for the woman. It consisted of one room without a fireplace, and a very small room that served as a kitchen. The commissary proceeded to question her. She appeared to be overwhelmed on learning of the theft. Last evening she had herself dressed the countess and placed the necklace upon her shoulders.
“Good God!” she exclaimed, “it can’t be possible!”
“And you have no idea? Not the least suspicion? Is it possible that the thief may have passed through your room?”
She
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