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 of giving that fillip to old Coussac. So the time went on, and we could not lay hands on the Montmailler murderer.

"And it wasn't an easy thing at all to find out who had killed the old foreman builder. We had scarcely any clue, and we did not know how to set to work.

"Well! one day I was at the gendarme quarters, about to curry-comb my horse, when a handsome young woman, with eyes like sloes and lips as red as cherries, came up to me and said: 'Well! have you any news of the murderer after all this time? I am the daughter of Léonard Coussac!

"It made me start when I heard that, I tell you! She spoke so energetically, and her eyes flashed so angrily, that I felt as though I ought to be ashamed of myself for not having taken a grip of the collar of that scoundrel who had killed the young woman's father. Then I tried to clear myself by explaining that it was not exactly our fault, that we had very little information about the murderer, and so on; but she looked at me straight in the eyes in such a manner that I felt I was making a mess of it.

Now, look here, miss,' I said suddenly, stopping in the midst of my excuses. 'I would willingly risk an arm or a leg, if necessary, to catch that scoundrel!' And I meant it, too. And it wasn't exactly what you call—er—professional duty which made me say it. It was those confounded black eyes which seemed all on fire. 'But, you see, we want a clue!'

A clue?' Then she shrugged her shoulders. 'What about the hand?' she asked. 'Isn't that a clue?'

The hand? What hand?'

"Then Catherine Coussac—her name was Catherine, Catissou in our country dialect—told me the story of the crime, a story which, I confess, made my blood run cold.

was one September evening when poor old Coussac was killed, and it was as warm as a summer day. In his house he had the money which Mr. Sabourdy, the contractor he worked for, had left with him before starting for Guéret. He had about ten thousand francs besides that, for he had to pay the men and meet two bills which would be due in two or three days. It was Saturday. After he had paid the men, the foreman builder returned home, pleased, and with a good appetite. He ate his cabbage soup and some dumplings, and after the meal his mother went upstairs to rest on the bed, as she was rather tired, while old Coussac and his daughter Catissou remained in the downstairs room, sitting near the chest where the money was. He was reading he Almanach Limousin which had just come out, and she was knitting a woollen stocking.

"You must understand that Coussac's rooms were at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. The one on the ground floor, in which Coussac and his daughter were then sitting, had a window about five feet from the ground, with inside shutters which were usually closed in the evening; but that evening the window had been left slightly open, because the old man felt rather warm. He was reading by the light of a shaded lamp, and Catissou heard him turn over the pages of the Almanach at regular intervals. She has often told me that, as she was working away mechanically, the tick-tick of the clock, and the rustle of