anywhere. You knew at once that you were in the presence of what the French call “une maîtresse femme.”
She greeted us with a dignified inclination of the head.
“Pray be seated, monsieurs.”
We took chairs, and the magistrate’s clerk established himself at a round table.
“I hope, madame,” began M. Hautet, “that it will not distress you unduly to relate to us what occurred last night?”
“Not at all, monsieur. I know the value of time, if these scoundrelly assassins are to be caught and punished.”
“Very well, madame. It will fatigue you less, I think, if I ask you questions and you confine yourself to answering them. At what time did you go to bed last night?”
“At half-past nine, monsieur. I was tired.”
“And your husband?”
“About an hour later, I fancy.”
“Did he seem disturbed—upset in any way?”
“No, not more than usual.”
“What happened then?”
“We slept. I was awakened by a hand being pressed over my mouth. I tried to scream out, but the hand prevented me. There were two men in the room. They were both masked.”
“Can you describe them at all, madame?”
“One was very tall, and had a long black beard, the other was short and stout. His beard was reddish. They both wore hats pulled down over their eyes.”
“H’m,” said the magistrate thoughtfully, “too much beard, I fear.”
“You mean they were false?”
“Yes, madame. But continue your story.”
“It was the short man who was holding me. He forced a gag into my mouth, and then bound me with
