Anne's pleasure was so great that, to see her laugh and play with
the little animal, her husband would doubtless have given twice
the sum.


So far, all the evidence is at one, and the narrative plain
sailing; but now the steering becomes difficult. I will try to
keep as nearly as possible to Anne's own statements; though
toward the end, poor thing . . .

Well, to go back. The very year after the little brown dog was
brought to Kerfol, Yves de Cornault, one winter night, was found
dead at the head of a narrow flight of stairs leading down from
his wife's rooms to a door opening on the court. It was his wife
who found him and gave the alarm, so distracted, poor wretch,
with fear and horror--for his blood was all over her--that at
first the roused household could not make out what she was
saying, and thought she had gone suddenly mad. But there, sure
enough, at the top of the stairs lay her husband, stone dead, and
head foremost, the blood from his wounds dripping down to the
steps below him. He had been dreadfully scratched and gashed
about the face and throat, as if with a dull weapon; and one of
his legs had a deep tear in it which had cut an artery, and
probably caused his death. But how did he come there, and who
had murdered him?

His wife declared that she had been asleep in her bed, and
hearing his cry had rushed out to find him lying on the stairs;
but this was immediately questioned. In the first place, it was
proved that from her room she could not have heard the struggle