“The scoundrel!”

“The scoundrel:  that’s the word which Weber goes roaring out all along the passages of the police office and the criminal investigation department.  You are the scoundrel and Florence Levasseur is your accomplice.  And hardly any one dares protest.

“The Prefect of Police?  What is the use of his defending you, of his remembering that you have saved his life twice over and rendered invaluable services to the police which he is the first to appreciate?  What is the use of his going to the Prime Minister, though we all know that Valenglay protects you?

“There are others besides the Prefect of Police!  There are others besides the Prime Minister!  There’s the whole of the detective office, there’s the public prosecutor’s staff, there’s the examining magistrate, the press and, above all, public opinion, which has to be satisfied and which calls for and expects a culprit.  That culprit is yourself or Florence Levasseur.  Or, rather, it’s you and Florence Levasseur.”

Don Luis did not move a muscle of his face.  Mazeroux waited a moment longer.  Then, receiving no reply, he made a gesture of despair.

“Chief, do you know what you are compelling me to do?  To betray my duty.  Well, let me tell you this:  to-morrow morning you will receive a summons to appear before the examining magistrate.  At the end of your examination, whatever questions may have been put to you and whatever you may have answered, you will be taken straight to the lockup.  The warrant is signed.  That is what your enemies have done.”

“The devil!”

“And that’s not all.  Weber, who is burning to take his revenge, has asked for permission to watch your house from this day onward, so that you may not slip away as Florence Levasseur did.  He will be here with his men in an hour’s time.  What do you say to that, Chief?”

Without abandoning his careless attitude, Don Luis beckoned to Mazeroux.

“Sergeant, just look under that sofa between the windows.”

Don Luis was serious.  Mazeroux instinctively obeyed.  Under the sofa was a portmanteau.

“Sergeant, in ten minutes, when I have told my servants to go to bed, carry the portmanteau to 143 bis Rue de Rivoli, where I have taken a small flat under the name of M. Lecocq.”

“What for, Chief?  What does it mean?”

“It means that, having no trustworthy person to carry that portmanteau for me, I have been waiting for your visit for the last three days.”

“Why, but—­” stammered Mazeroux, in his confusion.

“Why but what?”

“Had you made up your mind to clear out?”

“Of course I had!  But why hurry?  The reason I placed you in the detective office was that I might know what was being plotted against me.  Since you tell me that I’m in danger, I shall cut my stick.”

And, as Mazeroux looked at him with increasing bewilderment, he tapped him on the shoulder and said severely: