Fournaye, who is of Creole origin, is of an extremely excitablenature, and has suffered in the past from attacks of jealousy whichhave amounted to frenzy. It is conjectured that it was in one ofthese that she committed the terrible crime which has caused such asensation in London. Her movements upon the Monday night havenot yet been traced, but it is undoubted that a woman answering toher description attracted much attention at Charing Cross Stationon Tuesday morning by the wildness of her appearance and theviolence of her gestures. It is probable, therefore, that the crime waseither committed when insane, or that its immediate effect was todrive the unhappy woman out of her mind. At present she is unableto give any coherent account of the past, and the doctors hold outno hopes of the reestablishment of her reason. There is evidencethat a woman, who might have been Mme. Fournaye, was seen forsome hours upon Monday night watching the house in GodolphinStreet.
“What do you think of that, Holmes?” I had read the accountaloud to him, while he finished his breakfast.
“My dear Watson,” said he, as he rose from the table and pacedup and down the room, “You are most long-suffering, but if I havetold you nothing in the last three days, it is because there is nothingto tell. Even now this report from Paris does not help us much.”
“Surely it is final as regards the man’s death.”
“The man’s death is a mere incident—a trivial episode—incomparison with our real task, which is to trace this documentand save a European catastrophe. Only one important thinghas happened in the last three days, and that is that nothing hashappened. I get reports almost hourly from the government, andit is certain that nowhere in Europe is there any sign of trouble.
Now, if this letter were loose—no, it CAN’t be loose—but if it isn’tloose, where can it be? Who has it? Why is it held back? That’sthe question that beats in my brain like a hammer. Was it, indeed,a coincidence that Lucas should meet his death on the night whenthe letter disappeared? Did the letter ever reach him? If so, whyis it not among his papers? Did this mad wife of his carry it offwith her? If so, is it in her house in Paris? How could I search forit without the French police having their suspicions aroused? It isa case, my dear Watson, where the law is as dangerous to us as thecriminals are. Every man’s hand is against us, and yet the interestsat stake are colossal. Should I bring it to a successful conclusion,it will certainly represent the crowning glory of my career. Ah,here is my latest from the front!” He glanced hurriedly at thenote which had been handed in. “Halloa! Lestrade seems to haveobserved something of interest. Put on your hat, Watson, and wewill stroll down together to Westminster.”
It was my first visit to the scene of the crime—a high, dingy,narrow-chested house, prim, formal, and solid, like the centurywhich gave it birth. Lestrade’s bulldog features gazed out at usfrom the front window, and he greeted us warmly when a bigconstable had opened the door and let us in. The room into whichwe were shown was that in which the crime had been committed,but no trace of it now remained save an ugly, irregular stainupon the carpet. This carpet was a small square drugget in thecentre of the room, surrounded by a broad expanse of beautiful,old-fashioned wood-flooring in square blocks, highly polished.
Over the fireplace was a magnificent trophy of weapons, one ofwhich had been used on that tragic night. In the window was asumptuous writing-desk, and every detail of the apartment, thepictures, the rugs, and the hangings, all pointed to a taste whichwas luxurious to the verge of effeminacy.
“Seen the Paris news?” asked Lestrade.
Holmes nodded.
“Our French friends seem to have touched the spot this time.
No doubt it’s just as they say. She knocked at the door—surprisevisit, I guess, for he kept his life in water-tight compartments—helet her in, couldn’t keep her in the street. She told him how shehad traced him, reproached him. One thing led to another, andthen with that dagger so handy the end soon came. It wasn’t alldone in an instant, though, for these chairs were all swept overyonder, and he had one in his hand as if he had tried to hold heroff with it. We’ve got it all clear as if we had seen it.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows.
“And yet you have sent for me?”
“Ah, yes, that’s another matter—a mere trifle, but the sort ofthing you take an interest in—queer, you know, and what youmight call freakish. It has nothing to do with the main fact—can’thave, on the face of it.”
“What is it, then?”
“Well, you know, after a crime of this sort we are very careful tokeep things in their position. Nothing has been moved. Officer incharge here day and night. This morning, as the man was buriedand the investigation over—so far as this room is concerned—wethought we could tidy up a bit. This carpet. You see, it is notfastened down, only just laid there. We had occasion to raise it.
We found——”
“Yes? You found——”
Holmes’s face grew tense with anxiety.
“Well, I’m sure you would never guess in a hundred years whatwe did find. You see that stain on the carpet? Well, a great dealmust have soaked through, must it not?”
“Undoubtedly it must.”
“Well, you will be surprised to hear that there is no stain on thewhite woodwork to correspond.”
“No stain! But there must——”
“Yes, so you would say. But the fact remains that there isn’t.”
He took the corner of the carpet in his hand and, turning itover, he showed that it was indeed as he said.
“But the under side is as stained as the upper. It must have left amark.”
Lestrade chuckled with delight at having puzzled the famousexpert.
“Now, I’ll show you the explanation. There IS a second stain,but it does not correspond with the other. See for yourself.” As hespoke he turned over another portion of the carpet, and there, sureenough, was a great crimson spill upon the square white facing ofthe old-fashioned floor. “What do you make of that, Mr. Holmes?”
