“What is it now?”

“An urgent letter, sir, for Sergeant Mazeroux.”

“Sergeant Mazeroux is with me.  Give me the letter and don’t let me be disturbed again.”

He tore open the envelope.  The letter, hurriedly written in pencil and signed by one of the inspectors on duty outside the house, contained these words: 

“Look out, Sergeant.  Gaston Sauverand is in the house.  Two people living opposite say that the girl who is known hereabouts as the lady housekeeper came in at half-past one, before we took up our posts.  She was next seen at the window of her lodge.

“A few moments after, a small, low door, used for the cellars and situated under the lodge, was opened, evidently by her.  Almost at the same time a man entered the square, came along the wall, and slipped in through the cellar door.  According to the description it was Gaston Sauverand.  So look out, Sergeant.  At the least alarm, at the first signal from you, we shall come in.”

Don Luis reflected.  He now understood how the scoundrel had access to his house, and how, hidden in the safest of retreats, he was able to escape every attempt to find him.  He was living under the roof of the very man who had declared himself his most formidable adversary.

“Come on,” he said to himself.  “The fellow’s score is settled—­and so is his young lady’s.  They can choose between the bullets in my revolver and the handcuffs of the police.”

He had ceased to think of his motor standing ready below.  He no longer dreamt of flight with Florence.  If he did not kill the two of them, the law would lay its hand upon them, the hand that does not let go.  And perhaps it was better so, that society itself should punish the two criminals whom he was about to hand over to it.

He shut the door, pushed the bolt, faced his two prisoners again and, taking a chair, said to Sauverand: 

“Let us talk.”

Owing to the narrow dimensions of the room they were all so close together that Don Luis felt as if he were almost touching the man whom he loathed from the very bottom of his heart.  Their two chairs were hardly a yard asunder.  A long table, covered with books, stood between them and the windows, which, hollowed out of the very thick wall, formed a recess, as is usual in old houses.

Florence had turned her chair away from the light, and Don Luis could not see her face clearly.  But he looked straight into Gaston Sauverand’s face and watched it with eager curiosity; and his anger was heightened by the sight of the still youthful features, the expressive mouth, and the intelligent eyes, which were fine in spite of their hardness.

“Well?  Speak!” said Don Luis, in a commanding tone.  “I have agreed to a truce, but a momentary truce, just long enough to say what is necessary.  Are you afraid now that the time has arrived?  Do you regret the step which you have taken?”

The man smiled calmly and said: