Why don't you do
something?" "What?" asked Durand. "I don't know. Send for the Commissaire." "He's at Quimperlé. I telegraphed." "Then send for a doctor, and find out how long this blood has been
coagulating." "The chemist from Quimperlé is here; he's a doctor." "What does he say?" "He says that he doesn't know." "And who are you going to arrest?" I inquired, turning away from the
spectacle on the floor. "I don't know," said the brigadier solemnly; "you are denounced by the
Purple Emperor, because he found your handkerchief at the door when he
went out this morning." "Just like a pig-headed Breton!" I exclaimed, thoroughly angry. "Did he
not mention Yves Terrec?" "No." "Of course not," I said. "He overlooked the fact that Terrec tried to
shoot his father last night, and that I took away his gun. All that
counts for nothing when he finds my handkerchief at the murdered man's
door." "Come into the café," said Durand, much disturbed, "we can talk it
over, there. Of course, Monsieur Darrel, I have never had the faintest
idea that you were the murderer!" The four gendarmes and I walked across the road to the Groix Inn and
entered the café. It was crowded with Bretons, smoking, drinking,
and jabbering in half a dozen dialects, all equally unsatisfactory to
a civilized ear; and I pushed through the crowd to where little Max
Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, stood smoking a vile cigar. "This is a bad business," he said, shaking hands and offering me the
mate to his cigar, which I politely declined. "Now, Monsieur Fortin," I said, "it appears that the Purple Emperor
found my handkerchief near the murdered man's door this morning, and
so he concludes"--here I glared at the Purple Emperor--"that I am the
assassin. I will now ask him a question," and turning on him suddenly,
I shouted, "What were you doing at the Red Admiral's door?" The Purple Emperor started and turned pale, and I pointed at him
triumphantly. "See what a sudden question will do. Look how embarrassed he is,
and yet I do not charge him with murder; and I tell you, gentlemen,
that man there knows as well as I do who was the murderer of the Red
Admiral!" "I don't!" bawled the Purple Emperor. "You do," I said. "It was Yves Terrec." "I don't believe it," he said obstinately, dropping his voice. "Of course not, being pig-headed." "I am not pig-headed," he roared again, "but I am mayor of St. Gildas,
and I do not believe that Yves Terrec killed his father." "You saw him try to kill him last night?" The mayor grunted. "And you saw what I did." He grunted again. "And," I went on, "you heard Yves Terrec threaten to kill his father. You heard him curse the Red Admiral and swear to kill him. Now the
father is murdered and his body is gone." "And your handkerchief?" sneered the Purple Emperor. "I dropped it, of course." "And the seaweed gatherer who saw you last night lurking about the Red
Admiral's cottage," grinned the Purple Emperor. I was startled at the man's malice. "That will do," I said. "It is perfectly true that I was walking on the
Bannalec road last night, and that I stopped to close the Red Admiral's
door, which was ajar, although his light was not burning. After that
I went up the road to the Dinez Woods, and then walked over by St.
Julien, whence I saw the seaweed gatherer on the cliffs. He was near
enough for me to hear what he sang. What of that?" "What did you do then?" "Then I stopped at the shrine and said a prayer, and then I went to
bed and slept until Brigadier Durand's gendarmes awoke me with their
clatter." "Now, Monsieur Darrel," said the Purple Emperor, lifting a fat finger
and shooting a wicked glance at me, "Now, Monsieur Darrel, which did
you wear last night on your midnight stroll--sabots or shoes?" I thought a moment. "Shoes--no, sabots. I just slipped on my chaussons
and went out in my sabots." "Which was it, shoes or sabots?" snarled the Purple Emperor. "Sabots, you fool." "Are these your sabots?" he asked, lifting up a wooden shoe with my
initials cut on the instep. "Yes," I replied. "Then how did this blood come on the other one?" he shouted, and
held up a sabot, the mate to the first, on which a drop of blood had
spattered. "I haven't the least idea," I said calmly; but my heart was beating
very fast and I was furiously angry. "You blockhead!" I said, controlling my rage, "I'll make you pay for
this when they catch Yves Terrec and convict him. Brigadier Durand, do
your duty if you think I am under suspicion. Arrest me, but grant me
one favour. Put me in the Red Admiral's cottage, and I'll see whether
I can't find some clew that you have overlooked. Of course, I won't
disturb anything until the Commissaire arrives. Bah! You all make me
very ill."

"He's hardened," observed the Purple Emperor, wagging his head. "What motive had I to kill the Red Admiral?" I asked them all
scornfully. And they all cried:

"None! Yves Terrec is the man!" Passing out of the door I swung around and shook my finger at the
Purple Emperor. "Oh, I'll make you dance for this, my friend," I said; and I followed
Brigadier Durand across the street to the cottage of the murdered man. III. They took me at my word and placed a gendarme with a bared sabre at the
gateway by the hedge. "Give me your parole," said poor Durand, "and I will let you go
where you wish." But I refused, and began prowling about the cottage
looking for clews. I found lots of things that some people would have
considered most important, such as ashes from the Red Admiral's pipe,
footprints in a dusty vegetable bin, bottles smelling of Pouldu cider,
and dust--oh, lots of dust!--but I was not an expert, only a stupid,
everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick shooting
boots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope,
although the Red Admiral's microscope stood on the table close at hand. At last I found what I had been looking for, some long wisps of straw,
curiously depressed and flattened in the middle, and I was certain
I had found the evidence that would settle Yves Terrec for the rest
of his life. It was plain as the nose on your face. The straws were
sabot straws, flattened where the foot had pressed them, and sticking
straight out where they projected beyond the sabot. Now nobody in
St. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman who lived near St.
Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat straw! This straw, or rather these straws, were from the stalks of the red
wheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildas
knew, Yves Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; and
when, three hours later, a hoarse shouting from the Bannalec Road
brought me to the window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec,
bloody, dishevelled, hatless, with his strong arms bound behind him,
walking with bent head between two mounted gendarmes. The crowd around
him swelled every minute, crying: "Parricide! parricide! Death to the
murderer!"