was maintaining anything he could think of. Sir John could hardly restrain his bubbling anger, but he asked:
“And the motive for this crime? This phenomenal dwar. who slides down from train-roofs, strangles a large man, walks through a bolted door without disturbing the bolt, and parades up and down the corridor to show his beard and his chopped-off nose—what’s his motive, if any?”
“His motive,” answered Villon with sudden ringing clearness, “was robbery. I have examined the customs officer who looked at the man Mercier’s passport. Mercier took his credentials out of a large wallet. The officer saw that the wallet was filled with thousand-franc notes. When the body was examined, the wallet was empty.”
Villon got up from the desk. His big head seemed to drag down the weight of his body, and he was peering at them shaggily.
“Messieurs, I don’t suspect you. Don’t be under a misapprehension. I want to find out who knew this Mercier, and therefore I must see everybody. The other passengers are coming here tonight.” He touched a bell. “No, be still please.”
Then Villon went over to the window. Lights were strung over the naked city, following the dark curve of the river and the toy bustle on the Pont Alexandre. He shivered. For a while there was silence. Villon’s next remark startled them with its dreary frankness.
“I must confess to failure. I do not seem to handle things the way Bencolin did. He saw to everything. But I’m only human; I have too much work! Work, work, nothing else, and I’m only human, yes—I should have caught ⟨this⟩ man Mercier. I didn’t set the nets, and I should have done so. We were on the watch for him. He had diamonds. This will cost me my position, I fear, messieurs. . .
