“But no—not at present. M. Bex will be so kind as to bring it to us here.”
The commissary left the room. Stonor crossed to Jack, and wrung him by the hand. Poirot had risen and was adjusting a pair of candlesticks that struck his trained eye as being a shade askew. The magistrate was reading the mysterious love—letter through a last time, clinging desperately to his first theory of jealousy and a stab in the back.
Suddenly the door burst open and the commissary rushed in.
“M. le juge! M. le juge!”
“But yes. What is it?"”
“The dagger! It is gone!”
“Comment—gone?"
“Vanished. Disappeared. The glass jar that contained it is empty!”
“What?” I cried. “Impossible. Why, only this morning I saw—” The words died on my tongue.
But the attention of the entire room was diverted to me.
“What is that you say?” cried the commissary. “This morning?”
“I saw it there this morning,” I said slowly. “About an hour and a half ago, to be accurate.”
“You went to the shed, then? How did you get the key?”
“I asked the sergent de ville for it.”
“And you went there? Why?”
I hesitated, but in the end I decided that the only thing to do was to make a clean breast of it.
“M. le juge,” I said. “I have committed a grave fault, for which I must crave your indulgence.”
“Eh bien! Proceed, monsieur.”
“The fact of the matter is,” I said, wishing myself anywhere else than where I was, “that I met a young lady, an acquaintance of mine. She displayed a great desire to see everything that was to be seen, and I—well, in short, I took the key to show her the body.”
“Ah, par exemple,” cried the magistrate indignantly. “But it
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