“From the moment it was missing from this purse it had been stolen from me.”
She did not finish that sentence. Her heart was wrung by a sudden anguish, as she suddenly grasped the full meaning of such an accusation; and the problem presented itself to her in all its simplicity and with its only possible and exact solution: “The four pieces of gold are there. One of them has been stolen from me. Then one of these four men is a thief.”
And this undeniable fact brought her abruptly to such a vision of the facts, to a certainty so unforeseen and so formidable that she needed almost superhuman energy to restrain herself. It was needful that no one should be on their guard against her, before she had considered the matter and fully taken in the tragic aspect of the situation. She accepted therefore the notary’s hypothesis and murmured:
“After all … yes … that’s it. You must be right, Maître Delarue, I’ve lost that medal. … But how? I can’t think in what way I could have lost it … at what moment.”
She spoke in a very low voice, an absentminded voice. The parted curls showed her forehead furrowed by anxiety. Maître Delarue and the four strangers were exchanging futile phrases; not one of them seemed worth her consideration. Then they were silent. The silence lengthened. The lamps were switched off. The light from the little window was concentrated on Dorothy. She was very pale, so pale that she was aware of it and hid her face in her hands in order to prevent them from perceiving the effects of the emotions which were racking her.
Violent emotions, which proceeded from that truth that she had had such difficulty in attaining and which was disengaging itself from the shadows. It was not by scraps that she was gathering up the revealing clues but in a mass so to speak. The clouds had been swept away. In front of her, before her closed eyes, she saw … she saw. … Ah! What a terrifying fact!
However she stubbornly kept herself silent and motionless, while to her mind there presented themselves in quick succession during the course of a few seconds all the questions and all the answers, all the arguments and all the proofs.
She recalled the fact that the night before at the village of Périac the caravan had nearly been destroyed by fire. Who had started that fire? And with what motive? Might she not suppose that one of those unhoped-for helpers, who had appeared so suddenly in the very nick of time, had taken advantage of the confusion to slip into the caravan, ransack her sleeping birth, and open the little leather purse hanging from a nail.
Possessor of the medal, the chief of the gang returned in haste to the ruins of Roche-Périac and disposed his men in that peninsula, the innermost recesses of which must be known to him, and in which he had everything arranged in view of the fateful day, the 12th of July, 1921. Doubtless he had had a dress rehearsal with his confederate cast for the part of the sleeping Marquis. Final instructions. Promises of reward in the event of success. Menaces in the event of failure. And at noon he arrived quietly in front of the clock, like the other strangers, presented the medal, the only certificate of identity required, and was present at the reading of the will. Then came the ascent of the tower and the resurrection of the Marquis. In another instant she would have handed over the codicil to him; and he reached his goal. The great plot which d’Estreicher had been so long weaving attained its end. And how could she fail to observe that up to the very last minute, there had been in the working out of that plan, in the performance of unforeseen actions, necessitated by the chances, the same boldness, the same vigor, the same methodical decision? There are battles which are only won when the chief is on the battlefield.
He is here, she thought, distracted. He has escaped from prison and he is here. His confederate was going to betray him and join us; he killed him. He is here. Rid of his beard and spectacles, his skull shaved, his arm in a sling, disguised as a Russian soldier, not speaking a word, changing his bearing, he was unrecognizable. But it is certainly d’Estreicher. Now he has his eyes fixed on me. He is hesitating. He is asking himself have I penetrated his disguise. … Whether he can go on with the comedy … or whether he should unmask and compel us, revolver in hand, to hand over the codicil, that is to say the diamonds.
Dorothy did not know what to do. In her place a man of her character and temper would have settled the question by throwing himself on the enemy. But a woman? … Already her legs were failing her; she was in the grip of terror—of terror also for the three young men whom d’Estreicher could lay low with three shots.
She withdrew her hands from her face. Without turning she was aware that they were waiting, all four of them. D’Estreicher was one of the group, his eyes fixed on her … yes, fixed on her. … She felt the savage glare which followed her slightest movement and sought to discover her intentions.
She slid a step towards the door. Her plan was to gain that door, bar the enemy’s way, face him, and throw herself between him and the three young men. Blockaded against the walls of the room, with escape impossible, there were plenty of chances that he would be forced to yield to the will of three strong and resolute men.
She moved yet another step, imperceptibly … then another. Ten feet separated her from the door. She saw on her right its heavy mass, studded with nails.
She said, as if the disappearance of the medal still filled her mind:
“I must have lost it … a day or
