The Teeth of the Tiger. Морис Леблан

do you think of it?"

      Mazeroux shook his head. Perenna replied:

      "I think, Monsieur le Préfet, that, if this woman is guilty, she is defending herself, for all her cleverness, with inconceivable lack of skill."

      "Meaning—?"

      "Meaning that she was doubtless only a tool in the hands of an accomplice."

      "An accomplice?"

      "Remember, Monsieur le Préfet, her husband's exclamation in your office yesterday: 'Oh, the scoundrels! the scoundrels!' There is, therefore, at least one accomplice, who perhaps is the same as the man who was present, as Sergeant Mazeroux must have told you, in the Café du Pont-Neuf when Inspector Vérot was last there: a man with a reddish-brown beard, carrying an ebony walking-stick with a silver handle. So that—"

      "So that," said M. Desmalions, completing the sentence, "by arresting Mme. Fauville to-day, merely on suspicion, we have a chance of laying our hands on the accomplice."

      Perenna did not reply. The Prefect continued, thoughtfully:

      "Arrest her … arrest her. … We should need a proof for that. … Did you receive no clue?"

      "None at all, Monsieur le Préfet. True, my search was only summary."

      "But ours was most minute. We have been through every corner of the room."

      "And the garden, Monsieur le Préfet?"

      "The garden also."

      "With the same care?"

      "Perhaps not. … But I think—"

      "I think, on the contrary, Monsieur le Préfet, that, as the murderers passed through the garden in coming and going, there might be a chance—"

      "Mazeroux," said M. Desmalions, "go outside and make a more thorough inspection."

      The sergeant went out. Perenna, who was once more standing at one side, heard the Prefect of Police repeating to the examining magistrate:

      "Ah, if we only had a proof, just one! The woman is evidently guilty. The presumption against her is too great! … And then there are Cosmo Mornington's millions. … But, on the other hand, look at her … look at all the honesty in that pretty face of hers, look at all the sincerity of her grief."

      She was still crying, with fitful sobs and starts of indignant protest that made her clench her fists. At one moment she took her tear-soaked handkerchief, bit it with her teeth and tore it, after the manner of certain actresses.

      Perenna saw those beautiful white teeth, a little wide, moist and gleaming, rending the dainty cambric. And he thought of the marks of teeth on the apple. And he was seized with an extreme longing to know the truth. Was it the same pair of jaws that had left its impress in the pulp of the fruit?

      Mazeroux returned. M. Desmalions moved briskly toward the sergeant, who showed him the apple which he had found under the ivy. And Perenna at once realized the supreme importance which the Prefect of Police attached to Mazeroux's explanations and to his unexpected discovery.

      A conversation of some length took place between the magistrates and ended in the decision which Don Luis foresaw. M. Desmalions walked across the room to Mme. Fauville. It was the catastrophe. He reflected for a second on the manner in which he should open this final contest, and then he asked:

      "Are you still unable, Madame, to tell us how you employed your time last night?"

      She made an effort and whispered:

      "Yes, yes. … I took a taxi and drove about. … I also walked a little—"

      "That is a fact which we can easily verify when we have found the driver of the taxi. Meanwhile, there is an opportunity of removing the somewhat … grievous impression which your silence has left on our minds."

      "I am quite ready—"

      "It is this: the person or one of the persons who took part in the crime appears to have bitten into an apple which was afterward thrown away in the garden and which has just been found. To put an end to any suppositions concerning yourself, we should like you to perform the same action."

      "Oh, certainly!" she cried, eagerly. "If this is all you need to convince you—"

      She took one of the three apples which Desmalions handed her from the dish and lifted it to her mouth.

      It was a decisive act. If the two marks resembled each other, the proof existed, assured and undeniable.

      Before completing her movement, she stopped short, as though seized with a sudden fear. … Fear of what? Fear of the monstrous chance that might be her undoing? Or fear rather of the dread weapon which she was about to deliver against herself? In any case nothing accused her with greater directness than this last hesitation, which was incomprehensible if she was innocent, but clear as day if she was guilty!

      "What are you afraid of, Madame?" asked M. Desmalions.

      "Nothing, nothing," she said, shuddering. "I don't know. … I am afraid of everything. … It is all so horrible—"

      "But, Madame, I assure you that what we are asking of you has no sort of importance and, I am persuaded, can only have a fortunate result for you. If you don't mind, therefore—"

      She raised her hand higher and yet higher, with a slowness that betrayed her uneasiness. And really, in the fashion in which things were happening, the scene was marked by a certain solemnity and tragedy that wrung every heart.

      "And, if I refuse?" she asked, suddenly.

      "You are absolutely entitled to refuse," said the Prefect of Police. "But is it worth while, Madame? I am sure that your counsel would be the first to advise you—"

      "My counsel?" she stammered, understanding the formidable meaning conveyed by that reply.

      And, suddenly, with a fierce resolve and the almost ferocious air that contorts the face when great dangers threaten, she made the movement which they were pressing her to make. She opened her mouth. They saw the gleam of the white teeth. At one bite, the white teeth dug into the fruit.

      "There you are, Monsieur," she said.

      M. Desmalions turned to the examining magistrate.

      "Have you the apple found in the garden?"

      "Here, Monsieur le Préfet."

      M. Desmalions put the two apples side by side.

      And those who crowded round him, anxiously looking on, all uttered one exclamation.

      The two marks of teeth were identical.

      Identical! Certainly, before declaring the identity of every detail, the absolute analogy of the marks of each tooth, they must wait for the results of the expert's report. But there was one thing which there was no mistaking and that was the complete similarity of the two curves.

      In either fruit the rounded arch was bent according to the same inflection. The two semicircles could have fitted one into the other, both very narrow, both a little long-shaped and oval and of a restricted radius which was the very character of the jaw.

      The men did not speak a word. M. Desmalions raised his head. Mme. Fauville did not move, stood livid and mad with terror. But all the sentiments of terror, stupor and indignation that she might simulate with her mobile face and her immense gifts as an actress, did not prevail against the compelling proof that presented itself to every eye.

      The two imprints were identical! The same teeth had bitten into both apples!

      "Madame—" the Prefect of Police began.

      "No, no," she cried, seized with a fit of fury, "no, it's not true. … This is all just a nightmare. … No, you are never going to arrest me? I in prison! Why, it's horrible! … What have I done? Oh, I swear that you are mistaken—"

      She