They ascended to the room in question, and M. Lecoq, forgetting his
part of a haberdasher, and regardless of his clothes, went down flat
on his stomach, alternately scrutinizing the hatchet--which was a
heavy, terrible weapon--and the slippery and well-waxed oaken floor.

"I suppose," observed M. Plantat, "that the assassins brought this
hatchet up here and assailed this cupboard, for the sole purpose of
putting us off our scent, and to complicate the mystery. This
weapon, you see, was by no means necessary for breaking open the
cupboard, which I could smash with my fist. They gave one blow
--only one--and quietly put the hatchet down."

The detective got up and brushed himself.

"I think you are mistaken," said he. "This hatchet wasn't put on
the floor gently; it was thrown with a violence betraying either
great terror or great anger. Look here; do you see these three
marks, near each other, on the floor? When the assassin threw the
hatchet, it first fell on the edge--hence this sharp cut; then it
fell over on one side; and the flat, or hammer end left this mark
here, under my finger. Therefore, it was thrown with such violence
that it turned over itself and that its edge a second time cut in
the floor, where you see it now."

"True," answered M. Plantat. The detective's conjectures doubtless
refuted his own theory, for he added, with a perplexed air:

"I don't understand anything about it."