The detective was right. He got up confused, and after meditating
a moment, said:
"This perplexes me a little; however--"
He stopped, motionless, in a revery, with one of his hands on his
forehead.
"All might yet be explained," he muttered, mentally searching for a
solution of the mystery, "and in that case the time indicated by
the clock would be true."
M. Lecoq did not think of questioning his companion. He knew that
he would not answer, for pride's sake.
"This matter of the hatchet puzzles me, too," said he. "I thought
that these assassins had worked leisurely; but that can't be so.
I see they were surprised and interrupted."
Plantat was all ears.
"True," pursued M. Lecoq, slowly, "we ought to divide these
indications into two classes. There are the traces left on purpose
to mislead us--the jumbled-up bed, for instance; then there are
the real traces, undesigned, as are these hatchet cuts. But here
I hesitate. Is the trace of the hatchet true or false, good or
bad? I thought myself sure of the character of these assassins:
but now--" He paused; the wrinkles on his face, the contraction
of his mouth, betrayed his mental effort.
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