“The family of Chagny-Roborey in the Orne, the family of Argonne in the Ardennes, the family of Davernoie in Vendée, are so many focuses of the tradition. And around it dramas, robberies, assassinations, madness, a regular boiling up of passion and violence.”
“Nevertheless,” observed Errington, “here there is no one but us. What are the others doing?”
“They’re waiting. They’re waiting for a date of which they are ignorant. They are waiting for the medal. I saw in front of the church of Roche-Périac a tramp and a factory hand, a woman, from Paris. I saw two poor mad people who came to the rendezvous and are waiting at the edge of the water. A week ago I handed over to the police a dangerous criminal of the name of d’Estreicher, a distant connection of my family, who had committed a murder to obtain possession of the gold medal. Will you believe me now when I tell you that we are dealing with an impostor?”
Dario said:
“Then the man who is here has come to play the same part as the Marquis expected to play two hundred years after his death?”
“Of course.”
“With what object?”
“The diamonds, I tell you—the diamonds!”
“But since he knew of their existence, he had only to search for them and appropriate them.”
“You can take it from me that he has searched for them and without ceasing, but in vain. A fresh proof that the man only knew Geoffrey’s story, since Geoffrey had not been informed by his master of their hiding-place. And it is in order to learn where this hiding-place is, to be present at the meeting of the descendants of the Marquis de Beaugreval, that he is playing today, the 12th of July, 1921, after months and years of preparation, the part of the Marquis.”
“A dangerous part! An impossible part!”
“Possible for at least some hours, which would be enough. What do I say, some hours? But just think: at the end of ten minutes we were all of one mind about giving him the second envelope which contains the key to the enigma, and which was probably the actual object of his enterprise. He must have known of the existence of a codicil, of a document giving directions. But where to find that document. No longer any scrivener Barbier—no longer any successors. But where to find it? Why here! At the meeting on the 12th of July. Logically, the codicil must be brought to that meeting. Logically, it would be handed over to him. And as a matter of fact I had it in my hand. I held it out to him. A second later he would have obtained from it the information he wanted. After that, goodbye. The Marquis de Beaugreval, once possessor of the diamonds of the Marquis de Beaugreval, would retire into the void, that is to say he would bolt at full speed.”
Webster asked:
“Why didn’t you give him the envelope? Did you guess?”
“Guess? No. But I distrusted him. In offering it to him I was above all things making an experiment. What evidence it would be against him, if he accepted my offer by a gesture of acceptance, inexplicable at the end of such a short period? He did accept. I saw his hand tremble with impatience. I knew where I was. But at the same time Fortune was kind to me; I saw that little bit of gold in his mouth.”
It was all linked together in a flawless chain of reasoning. Dorothy had set forth the coordination of events, causes and effects, as one displays a piece of tapestry in which the complicated play of design and color produces the most harmonious unity.
The four young men were astounded; not one of them threw any doubt on her statement.
Archibald Webster said:
“One would think that you had been present throughout the whole adventure.”
“Yes,” said Dario. “The revivified Marquis played a whole comedy before you.”
“What a power of observation and what terrible logic!” said Errington, of London.
And Webster added:
“And what intuition!”
Dorothy did not respond to the praise with her habitual smile. One would have said that events were happening in a manner far from pleasing to her, which seemed to promise others which she distrusted in advance. But what events? What was there to fear?
In the silence Maître Delarue suddenly cried:
“Well, for my part, I assert that you’re making a mistake. I’m not at all of your opinion, mademoiselle.”
Maître Delarue was one of those people who cling the more firmly to an opinion the longer they have been adopting it. The resurrection of the Marquis suddenly appeared to him a dogma he was bound to defend.
He repeated:
“Not at all of your opinion! You are piling up unfounded hypotheses. No: this man is not an impostor. There is evidence in his favor which you do not take into account.”
“What evidence?” she asked.
“Well, his portrait! His indisputable resemblance to the portrait of the Marquis de Beaugreval, executed by Largillière!”
“Who tells you that this is the portrait of the Marquis, and not the portrait of the man himself? It’s a very easy way of resembling anyone.”
“But this old frame? This canvas which dates from earlier days?”
“Let us admit that the frame remained. Let us admit that the old canvas, instead of having been changed, has simply been painted over in such a way as to represent the false Marquis here present.”
“And the cutoff finger?” exclaimed Maître Delarue triumphantly.
“A finger can be cut off.”
The notary became vehement:
“Oh, no! A thousand times, no! Whatever be the attraction of the benefit to be derived, one does not mutilate oneself. No, no: your contention falls to the ground. What? You represent this fellow as ready to cut off his finger! This fellow with his dull face, his air of stupidity! But he is incapable of it! He’s weak and a coward. …”
The argument struck Dorothy. It threw light on the most obscure part of the business; and she drew from it exactly the conclusions it warranted.
“You’re right,”
