"
"It is a trabucos, and was smoked in a cigar-holder."
"Like these?" persisted the magistrate, pointing to the cigars and the
amber and meerschaum-holders found in the viscount's library.
"Yes!" murmured Albert, "it is a fatality--a strange coincidence."
"Patience, that is nothing, as yet. The assassin wore gloves. The
victim, in the death struggle, seized his hands; and some pieces of kid
remained in her nails. These have been preserved, and are here. They are
of a lavender colour, are they not? Now, here are the gloves which you
wore on Tuesday. They, too, are lavender, and they are frayed. Compare
these pieces of kid with your own gloves. Do they not correspond? Are
they not of the same colour, the same skin?"
It was useless to deny it, equivocate, or seek subterfuges. The evidence
was there, and it was irrefutable. While appearing to occupy himself
solely with the objects lying upon his table, M. Daburon did not lose
sight of the prisoner. Albert was terrified. A cold perspiration bathed
his temples, and glided drop by drop down his cheeks. His hands trembled
so much that they were of no use to him. In a chilling voice he kept
repeating: "It is horrible, horrible!"
"Finally," pursued the inexorable magistrate, "here are the trousers you
wore on the evening of the murder.
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