M. Daburon examined him, and estimated him at a glance. There was no
doubt but that he was the sunburnt man described by one of the witnesses
at La Jonchere.
It was also impossible to doubt his honesty. His open countenance
displayed sincerity and good nature.
"Your name?" demanded the investigating magistrate.
"Marie Pierre Lerouge."
"Are you, then, related to Claudine Lerouge?"
"I am her husband, sir."
What, the husband of the victim alive, and the police ignorant of his
existence!
Thus thought M. Daburon.
What, then, does this wonderful progress in invention accomplish?
To-day, precisely as twenty years ago, when Justice is in doubt, it
requires the same inordinate loss of time and money to obtain the
slightest information.
On Friday, they had written to inquire about Claudine's past life; it
was now Monday, and no reply had arrived.
And yet photography was in existence, and the electric telegraph. They
had at their service a thousand means, formerly unknown; and they made
no use of them.
"Every one," said the magistrate, "believed her a widow. She herself
pretended to be one."
"Yes, for in that way she partly excused her conduct.
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