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, disheveled,
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!" As he passed
my window I saw great clots of mud on his dusty sabots, from the heels of
which projected wisps of red wheat straw. Then I walked back into the Red
Admiral's study, determined to find what the microscope would show on the
wheat straws. I examined each one very carefully, and then, my eyes aching,
I rested my chin on my hand and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as
fortunate as some detectives, for there was no evidence that the straws had
ever been used in a sabot at all. Furthermore, directly across the hallway
stood a carved Breton chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, from
beneath the closed lid, dozens of similar red wheat straws projected, bent
exactly as mine were bent by the lid.
I yawned in disgust. It was apparent that I was not cut out for a detective,
and I bitterly pondered over the difference between clews in real life and
clews in a detective story. After a while I rose, walked over to the chest and
opened the lid. The interior was wadded with the red wheat straws, and on
this wadding lay two curious glass jars, two or three small vials, several
empty bottles labelled chloroform, a collecting jar of cyanide of potassium,
All these traps I carried over to the desk, shut the lid of the chest, and sat
down to read the letters. They were written in commercial French, evidently
by an Englishman.
Freely translated, the contents of the first letter were as follows:
"LONDON, June 12, 1894.
"DEAR MONSIEUR (sic):
"Yours, etc.,
The next letter was even less interesting. It merely stated that the money
had been received and the book would be forwarded. The third engaged my
attention, and I shall quote it, the translation being a free one:
"DEAR SIR:
"Yours sincerely,
"FRADLEY & TOOMER.
The inclosed slip read as follows:
"Messrs. FRADLEY & TOOMER,
"HEINRICH SCHWEINERI,
Now, although the Red Admiral could only have acquired the book very
recently, and although all the other pages were perfectly clean, this particular
page was thumbed black, and heavy pencil marks inclosed a paragraph at
the bottom of the page. This the paragraph:
When I had finished reading this note I sat for a long while thinking hard.
Then I examined the two jars. They were labelled "Cythyl." One was full, the
other nearly full. "The rest must be on the corpse of the Red Admiral," I
thought, "no matter if it is in a corked bottle----"
I took all the things back to the chest, laid them carefully on the straw, and
closed the lid. The gendarme sentinel at the gate saluted me respectfully as I
crossed over to the Groix Inn. The inn was surrounded by an excited crowd,
and the hallway was choked with gendarmes and peasants. On every side
they greeted me cordially, announcing that the real murderer was caught; but
I pushed by them without a word and ran upstairs to find Lys. She opened
her door when I knocked and threw both arms about my neck. I took her to
my breast and kissed her. After a moment I asked her if she would obey me
no matter what I commanded, and she said she would, with a proud humility
that touched me.
She raised her face to mine. "Kiss me," she said innocently; the next
moment she had vanished.
I walked deliberately into the Purple Emperor's room and peered into the
gauze-covered box which held the chrysalis of Apatura Iris. It was as I
expected. The chrysalis was empty and transparent, and a great crack ran
"Parricide!" they howled. "Let him die!"
I stepped back and opened the gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmly I
took the splendid butterfly by its closed fore wings and lifted it unharmed
between my thumb and forefinger. Then, holding it concealed behind my
back, I went down into the café.
Of all the crowd that had filled it, shouting for the death of Yves Terrec,
only three persons remained seated in front of the huge empty fireplace. They
were the Brigadier Durand, Max Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, and the
Purple Emperor. The latter looked abashed when I entered, but I paid no
attention to him and walked straight to the chemist.
"They are my specialty," he said astonished.
"Have you ever heard of such thing as cythyl?"
"Schweineri's cythyl? Oh, yes! We use it in perfurmery."
"Good!" I said. "Has it an odour?"
"No--and yes. One is always aware of its presence, but nobody can affirm
it has an odour. It is curious," he continued, looking at me, "it is very curious
you should have asked me that, for all day I have been imagining I detected
the presence of cythyl."
"Do you imagine so now?" I asked.
I sprang to the front door and tossed out the butterfly. The splendid
creature beat the air for a moment, flitted uncertainly hither and thither, and
then, to my astonishment, sailed majestically back into the café and alighted
on the hearthstone. For a moment I was non-plussed, but when my eyes
rested on the Purple Emperor I comprehended in a flash.
"Lift that hearthstone!" I cried to the Brigadier Durand; "pry it up with your
scabbard!"
The Purple Emperor suddenly fell forward in his chair, his face ghastly
white, his jaw loose with terror.
"What is cythyl?" I shouted, seizing him by the arm; but he plunged heavily
from his chair, face downward on the floor, and at the moment a cry from the
chemist made me turn. There stood the Brigadier Durand, one hand
supporting the hearthstone, one hand raised in horror. There stood Max
Fortin, the chemist, rigid with excitement, and below, in the hollow bed
where the hearthstone had rested, lay a crushed mass of bleeding human
"Look!" I cried; "look at your old friend, the Red Admiral!" but he only
smiled in a vacant way, and rolled his head muttering; "Bait for butterflies!
Cythyl! Oh, no, no, no! You can't do it, Admiral, d'ye see. I alone own the
Purple Emperor! I alone am the Purple Emperor!"
And the same carriage that bore me to Quimperlé to claim my bride, carried
him to Quimper, gagged and bound, a foaming, howling lunatic.
and a book. In a farther corner of the chest were some letters bearing English
stamps, and also the torn coverings of two parcels, all from England, and all
directed to the Red Admiral under his proper name of "Sieur Louis Jean
Terrec, St. Gildas, par Moëlan, Finistère."
Your kind favour
of the 19th inst. received and contents
noted. The latest work on the Lepidoptera of
England is Blowzer's How to catch British
Butterflies, with notes and tables, and an
introduction by Sir Thomas Sniffer. The price of
this work (in one volume, calf) is £5 or 125
francs of French money. A post-office order
will receive our prompt attention. We beg to
remain,
"FRADLEY & TOOMER,
"470 Regent Square, London, S.W."
Your letter of the 1st of July
was duly received, and we at once referred it to
Mr. Fradley himself. Mr. Fradley being much
interested in your question, sent your letter to
Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological
Society, whose note Blowzer refers to on page
630, in his How to catch British Butterflies. We
have just received an answer from Professor
Schweineri, which we translate into French--(see
inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs
to present to you two jars of cythyl, prepared
under his own supervision. We forward the
same to you. Trusting that you will find
everything satisfactory, we remain,
"GENTLEMEN:
Cythaline, a complex hydrocarbon,
was first used by Professor Schnoot, of
Antwerp, a year ago. I discovered an analogous
formula about the same time and named it cythyl.
I have used it with great success everywhere. It
is as certain as a magnet. I beg to present you
three small jars, and would be pleased to have
you forward two of them to your correspondent
in St. Gildas with my compliments. Blowzer's
quotation of me on page 630 of his glorious
work, How to catch British Butterflies, is correct.
"Yours, etc.
P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S."
When I had finished this letter I folded it up and put it into my pocket with
the others. Then I opened Blowzer's valuable work, How to catch British
Butterflies, and turned to page 630.
"Professor Schweineri says: 'Of the two
old methods used by collectors for the capture of
the swift-winged, high-flying Apatura Iris, or
Purple Emperor, the first, which was using a
long-handled net, proved successful once in a
thousand times; and the second, the placing of
bait upon the ground, such as decayed meat,
dead cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable,
even for an enthusiastic collector, but also very
uncertain. Once in five hundred times would
the splendid butterfly leave the tops of his
favourite oak trees to circle about the fetid bait
offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure
bait to draw this beautiful butterfly to the
ground, where it can be easily captured. An
ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer under
an oak tree, will draw to it every Apatura Iris
within a radius of twenty miles. So, if any
collector who possesses a little cythyl, even
though it be in a sealed bottle in his pocket--if
such a collector does not find a single Apatura
Iris fluttering close about him within an hour,
let him be satisfied that the Apatura Iris does
not inhabit his country.'"
"Then go at once to Yvette in St. Julien," I said. "Ask her to harness the
dog-cart and drive to the convent in Quimperlé. Wait for me there. Will you
do this without questioning me, my darling?"
down the middle of its back, but, on the netting inside the box, a magnificent
butterfly slowly waved its burnished purple wings; for the chrysalis had given
up its silent tenant, the butterfly symbol of immortality. Then a great fear fell
upon me. I know now that it was the fear of the Black Priest, but neither then
nor for years after did I know that the Black Priest had ever lived on earth.
As I bent over the box I heard a confused murmur outside the house which
ended in a furious shout of "Parricide!" and I heard the gendarmes ride away
behind a wagon which rattled sharply on the flinty highway. I went to the
window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, two
gendarmes at either side of him, and all around the wagon rode mounted
gendarmes whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.
"Monsieur Fortin," I said, "do you know much about hydrocarbons?"
"Yes, more than ever."
flesh, from the midst of which stared a cheap glass eye. I seized the Purple
Emperor and dragged him to his feet.
This, then, is the story of the Purple Emperor. I might tell you a pleasanter
story if I chose; but concerning the fish that I had hold of, whether it was a
salmon, a grilse, or a sea trout, I may not say, because I have promised Lys,
and she has promised me, that no power on earth shall wring from our lips
the mortifying confession that the fish escaped.
