He said a few more words which M. Desmalions could not make out.  Then the voice ceased; and, though the Prefect still heard cries, it seemed to him that those cries were distant, as though the instrument were no longer within the reach of the mouth that uttered them.

He hung up the receiver.

“Gentlemen,” he said, with a smile, “it is seventeen to three.  In seventeen minutes we shall all be blown up together.  At least, that is what our good friend Don Luis Perenna declares.”

In spite of the jokes with which this threat was met, there was a general feeling of uneasiness.  Weber asked: 

“Was it really Don Luis, Monsieur le Prefet?”

“Don Luis in person.  He has gone to earth in some hiding-hole in his house, above the study; and his fatigue and privations seem to have unsettled him a little.  Mazeroux, go and ferret him out—­unless this is just some fresh trick on his part.  You have your warrant.”

Sergeant Mazeroux went up to M. Desmalions.  His face was pallid.

“Monsieur le Prefet, did he tell you that we were going to be blown up?”

“He did.  He relies on the note which M. Weber found in a volume of Shakespeare.  The explosion is to take place to-night.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“At three o’clock in the morning—­that is to say, in less than a quarter of an hour.”

“And do you propose to remain, Monsieur le Prefet?”

“What next, Sergeant?  Do you imagine that we are going to obey that gentleman’s fancies?”

Mazeroux staggered, hesitated, and then, despite all his natural deference, unable to contain himself, exclaimed: 

“Monsieur le Prefet, it’s not a fancy.  I have worked with Don Luis.  I know the man.  If he tells you that something is going to happen, it’s because he has his reasons.”

“Absurd reasons.”

“No, no, Monsieur le Prefet,” Mazeroux pleaded, growing more and more excited.  “I swear that you must listen to him.  The house will be blown up—­he said so—­at three o’clock.  We have a few minutes left.  Let us go.  I entreat you, Monsieur le Prefet.”

“In other words, you want us to run away.”

“But it’s not running away, Monsieur le Prefet.  It’s a simple precaution.  After all, we can’t risk—­You, yourself, Monsieur le Prefet—­”

“That will do.”

“But, Monsieur le Prefet, as Don Luis said—­”

“That will do, I say!” repeated the Prefect harshly.  “If you’re afraid, you can take advantage of the order which I gave you and go off after Don Luis.”

Mazeroux clicked his heels together and, old soldier that he was, saluted: 

“I shall stay here, Monsieur le Prefet.”

And he turned and went back to his place at a distance.

* * * * *

Silence followed.  M. Desmalions began to walk up and down the room, with his hands behind his back.  Then, addressing the chief detective and the secretary general: