"Another crime？ Fellner a criminal？"
"To-morrow you shall know everything， my kind friend. And now， let us make the trial. Please lock the door behind me as it was locked then."
Muller left the room， taking the pistol with him. Bauer locked the door. "Is this right？" he asked.
"Yes， I can see a wide curve of the room， taking in the entire desk. Please stand to one side now."
There was deep silence for a moment， then a slight sound as of metal on metal， then a report， and Muller re-entered the study through the bedroom. He found Bauer stooping over the picture of the French soldier. There was a hole in the left breast， where the bullet， passing through， had buried itself in the back of the chair.
"Yes， it was all just as you said，" began the chief of police， holding out his hand to Muller. "But - why the golden bullet？"
"To-morrow， to-morrow，" replied the detective， looking up at his superior with a glance of pleading.
They left the house together and in less than an hour's time Muller was again in the train rolling towards the capital.
He went to the goldsmith's shop as soon as he arrived. The proprietor received him with eager interest and Muller handed him the golden bullet. "Here is the golden object of which I spoke，" said the detective， paying no heed to the other's astonishment. The goldsmith opened a small locked drawer， took a ring from it and set about an examination of the two little objects. When he turned to his visitor again， he was evidently satisfied with what he had discovered. "These two objects are made of exactly the same sort of gold， of a peculiar old French composition， which can no longer be produced in the same richness. The weight of the gold in the bullet is exactly the same as in the ring."
"Would you be willing to take an oath on that if you were called in as an expert？"
"I am willing to stand up for my judgment."
"Good. And now will you read this over please， it contains the substance of what you told me yesterday. Should I have made any mistakes， please correct them， for I will ask you to set your signature to it."
Muller handed several sheets of close writing to the goldsmith and the latter read aloud as follows： "On the 22nd of November， a gentleman came into my shop and handed me a wedding ring with the request that I should make another one exactly like it. He was particularly anxious that the work should be done in two days at the very latest， and also that the new ring， in form， colour， and in the engraving on the inside， should be a perfect counterpart of the first. He explained his order by saying that his wife was ill， and that she was grieving over the loss of her wedding ring which had somehow disappeared. The new ring could be found somewhere as if by chance and the sick woman's anxiety would be over. Two days later， as arranged， the same gentleman appeared again and I handed him the two rings.
"He left the shop， greatly satisfied with my work and apparently much relieved in his mind. But he left me uneasy in spirit because I had deceived him. It had not been possible for me to reproduce exactly the composition of the original ring， and as I believed that the work was to be done in order to comfort an invalid， and I was getting no profit， but on the contrary a little extra work out of it， I made two new rings， lettered them according to the original and gave them to my customer. The original ring I am now， on this seventh day of December， giving to Mr. Joseph Mullet， who has shown me his legitimation as a member of the Secret Police. I am willing to put myself at the service of the authorities if I am called for."
"You are willing to do this， aren't you？" asked Muller when the goldsmith had arrived at the end of the notice.
"Of course."
"Have you anything to add to this？"
"No， it is quite complete. I will sign it at once."
Several hours later， Muller re-entered the police station in his home town and saw the windows of the chief's apartment brilliantly lighted. "What's going on，" he asked of Baner's servant who was just hurrying up the stairs.
"The mistress' birthday， we've got company."
Muller grumbled something and went on up to his own room. He knew it would not be pleasant for his patron to be disturbed in the midst of entertaining his guests， but the matter was important and could not wait.
The detective laid off his outer garments， made a few changes in his toilet and putting the goldsmith's declaration， with the ring and the bullet in his pocketbook， he went down to the first floor of the building， in one wing of which was the apartment occupied by the Chief. He sent in his name and was told to wait in the little study. He sat down quietly in a corner of the comfortable little room beyond which， in a handsomely furnished smoking room， a number of guests sat playing cards. From the drawing rooms beyond， there was the sound of music and many voices.
It was all very attractive and comfortable， and the solitary man sat there enjoying once more the pleasant sensation of triumph， of joy at the victory that was his alone and that would win him back all his old friends and prestige. He was looking forward in agreeable anticipation to the explanations he had to give， when he suddenly started and grew pale. His eyes dimmed a moment， then he pulled himself together and murmured： "No， no， not this time. I will not be weak this time."
