"Between eleven and twelve? Is that sure?" asked Besnard.
"Certainly," replied Hanaud. "The gate is open at eleven, and
Perrichet closes it. It is open again at twelve. Therefore the
murderers had not gone before eleven. No; the gate was open for
them to go, but they had not gone. Else why should the gate again
be open at midnight?"
Besnard nodded in assent, and suddenly Perrichet started forward,
with his eyes full of horror.
"Then, when I first closed the gate," he cried, "and came into the
garden and up to the house they were here--in that room? Oh, my
God!" He stared at the window, with his mouth open.
"I am afraid, my friend, that is so," said Hanaud gravely.
"But I knocked upon the wooden door, I tried the bolts; and they
were within--in the darkness within, holding their breath not
three yards from me."
He stood transfixed.
"That we shall see," said Hanaud.
He stepped in Perrichet's footsteps to the sill of the room. He
examined the green wooden doors which opened outwards, and the
glass doors which opened inwards, taking a magnifying-glass from
his pocket. He called Besnard to his side.
"See!" he said, pointing to the woodwork.
"Finger-marks!" asked Besnard eagerly.
"Yes; of hands in gloves," returned Hanaud. "We shall learn
nothing from these marks except that the assassins knew their
trade."
Then he stooped down to the sill, where some traces of steps were
visible. He rose with a gesture of resignation.
"Rubber shoes," he said, and so stepped into the room, followed by
Wethermill and the others. They found themselves in a small recess
which was panelled with wood painted white, and here and there
delicately carved into festoons of flowers. The recess ended in an
arch, supported by two slender pillars, and on the inner side of
the arch thick curtains of pink silk were hung. These were drawn
back carelessly, and through the opening between them the party
looked down the length of the room beyond. They passed within.