swering my questions she tells me that she has seen a 'white lady,' tall and with flowing robes, like an angel, come into the dormitory where she and her companions slept on many occasions, and I have ascertained from previous questions that no one enters those sleeping quarters after the lights are out unless there is specific need for a visit. What was I to think? Had the little one dreamed it, or has she seen this so mysterious 'white lady' on her midnight visits? It is hard to say where recollection stops and romance begins in children's tales, my friend, as you well know, but the little Betsy was most sure the 'white lady' had come only on those nights when her little companions vanished.
"Here we had something from which to reason, though the morsel of fact was small. However, when I talk further with the child, she informed me it was Mère Martin who had warned her against us, saying we would surely cut her tongue with a knife if she talked to us. This, again, was worthy of thought. But Monsieur Gervaise had been smelling at the door while we were interrogating the children, and he had also disapproved of our seeing them alone. My suspicion of him would not die easily, my friend; I was stubborn, and refused to let my mind take me where it would.
"So, as you know, when we had posted the four-footed sentry inside the children's door, I made sure we would catch a fish in our trap, and next morning I was convinced we had, for did not Gervaise wear his arm in a sling? Truly, he did.
"But at the laundry they showed me no torn pajamas of his, while I found the gowns of both Mademoiselle Bosworth and Madame Martin torn as if the dog had bitten them. More mystery. Whieh way should I turn, if at all?
"I find that Gervaise's window really had been broken, but that meant nothing; he might have done it himself in order to construct an alibi. Of the reason for Mademoiselle Bosworth's torn robe I could glean no trace; but behind my brain, at the very back of my head, something was whispering at me; something I could not hear, but which I knew was of importance.
"Then, as we drove away from the home, you mentioned the acid test. My friend, those words of yours let loose the memory which cried aloud to me, but which I could not clearly understand. Of a suddenness I did recall the scene at luncheon, how Mademoiselle Bosworth declared Mère Martin ate no meat for six months, and how angry Madame Martin was at the mention of it. Parbleu, for six months the little ones had been disappearing—for six months Madame Martin had eaten no meat, yet she were plump and well-nourished. She had the look of a meat-eater!"
"Still," I protested, "I don't see how that put you on the track."
"No?" he replied. "Remember, my friend, how we stopped to interview the druggist. Why think you we did that?"
"Hanged if I know," I confessed.
"Of course not," he agreed with a nod. "But I know. 'Suppose,' I say to me, 'someone have eaten the flesh of these poor disappeared children? What would that one do with the bones?'
"'He would undoubtlessly bury or burn them,' I reply.
"'Very good, but more likely he would burn them, since buried bones may be dug up, and burned bones are only ashes; but what of the teeth? They would resist fire such as can be had in the ordinary stove, yet surely they might betray the murderer.'
"'But of course,' I admit, 'but why should not the murderer reduce
