“Yes, a man calling himself Dufour had taken rooms about midday, one for himself, one for madame who was with him, also named Dufour—­his sister, he said;” and he went on at the request of the police officers to describe them.

“Our birds,” said the senior agent, briefly.  “They are wanted.  We belong to the detective police.”

“All right.”  Such visits were not new to the clerk.

“But you will not find monsieur; he is out; there hangs his key.  Madame?  No, she is within.  Yes, that is certain, for not long since she rang her bell.  There, it goes again.”

He looked up at the furiously oscillating bell, but made no move.

“Bah! they do not pay for service; let her come and say what she needs.”

“Exactly; and we will bring her,” said the officer, making for the stairs and the room indicated.

But on reaching the door, they found it locked.  From within?  Hardly, for as they stood there in doubt, a voice inside cried vehemently: 

“Let me out!  Help!  Help!  Send for the police.  I have much to tell them.  Quick!  Let me out.”

“We are here, my dear, just as you require us.  But wait; step down, Gaston, and see if the clerk has a second key.  If not, call in a locksmith—­the nearest.  A little patience only, my beauty.  Do not fear.”

The key was quickly produced, and an entrance effected.

A woman stood there in a defiant attitude, with arms akimbo; she, no doubt, of whom they were in search.  A tall, rather masculine-looking creature, with a dark, handsome face, bold black eyes just now flashing fiercely, rage in every feature.

“Madame Dufour?” began the police officer.

“Dufour!  Rot!  My name is Hortense Petitpre; who are you? La Rousse?” (Police.)

“At your service.  Have you anything to say to us?  We have come on purpose to take you to the Prefecture quietly, if you will let us; or—­”

“I will go quietly.  I ask nothing better.  I have to lay information against a miscreant—­a murderer—­the vile assassin who would have made me his accomplice—­the banker, Quadling, of Rome!”

In the fiacre Hortense Petitpre talked on with such incessant abuse, virulent and violent, of Quadling, that her charges were neither precise nor intelligible.

It was not until she appeared before M. Beaumont le Hardi, and was handled with great dexterity by that practised examiner, that her story took definite form.

What she had to say will be best told in the clear, formal language of the official disposition.

The witness inculpated stated: 

“She was named Aglae Hortense Petitpre, thirty-four years of age, a Frenchwoman, born in Paris, Rue de Vincennes No. 374.  Was engaged by the Contessa Castagneto, November 19, 189—­, in Rome, as lady’s maid, and there, at her mistress’s domicile, became acquainted with the Sieur Francis Quadling, a banker of the Via Condotti, Rome.