"So," resumed M. Daburon, "you met absolutely no one who can affirm that
he saw you? You did not speak to a living soul? You entered no place,
not even a cafe or a theatre, or a tobacconist's to light one of your
favourite trabucos?"
"No, sir."
"Well, it is a great misfortune for you, yes, a very great misfortune;
for I must inform you, that it was precisely during this Tuesday
evening, between eight o'clock and midnight, that Widow Lerouge was
assassinated. Justice can point out the exact hour. Again, sir, in your
own interest, I recommend you to reflect,--to make a strong appeal to
your memory."
This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the murder seemed to
astound Albert. He raised his hand to his forehead with a despairing
gesture. However he replied in a calm voice,--"I am very unfortunate,
sir: but I can recollect nothing."
M. Daburon's surprise was immense. What, not an _alibi_? Nothing? This
could be no snare nor system of defence. Was, then, this man as cunning
as he had imagined? Doubtless. Only he had been taken unawares. He had
never imagined it possible for the accusation to fall upon him; and it
was almost by a miracle it had done so.
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