“Hiding?” said M. Desmalions, who was growing more and more irritated.

“No, but fainting, ill—­dead, perhaps.”

“But where, hang it all?”

“Behind that screen.”

“There’s nothing behind that screen, nothing but a door.”

“And that door—?”

“Leads to a dressing-room.”

“Well, Monsieur le Prefet, Inspector Verot, tottering, losing his head, imagining himself to be going from your office to your secretary’s room, fell into your dressing-room.”

M. Desmalions ran to the door, but, at the moment of opening it, shrank back.  Was it apprehension, the wish to withdraw himself from the influence of that astonishing man, who gave his orders with such authority and who seemed to command events themselves?

Don Luis stood waiting imperturbably, in a deferential attitude.

“I cannot believe—­” said M. Desmalions.

“Monsieur le Prefet, I would remind you that Inspector Verot’s revelations may save the lives of two persons who are doomed to die to-night.  Every minute lost is irreparable.”

M. Desmalions shrugged his shoulders.  But that man mastered him with the power of his conviction; and the Prefect opened the door.

He did not make a movement, did not utter a cry.  He simply muttered: 

“Oh, is it possible!—­”

By the pale gleam of light that entered through a ground-glass window they saw the body of a man lying on the floor.

“The inspector!  Inspector Verot!” gasped the office messenger, running forward.

He and the secretary raised the body and placed it in an armchair in the Prefect’s office.

Inspector Verot was still alive, but so little alive that they could scarcely hear the beating of his heart.  A drop of saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth.  His eyes were devoid of all expression.  However, certain muscles of the face kept moving, perhaps with the effort of a will that seemed to linger almost beyond life.

Don Luis muttered: 

“Look, Monsieur le Prefet—­the brown patches!”

The same dread unnerved all.  They began to ring bells and open doors and call for help.

“Send for the doctor!” ordered M. Desmalions.  “Tell them to bring a doctor, the first that comes—­and a priest.  We can’t let the poor man—­”

Don Luis raised his arm to demand silence.

“There is nothing more to be done,” he said.  “We shall do better to make the most of these last moments.  Have I your permission, Monsieur le Prefet?”

He bent over the dying man, laid the swaying head against the back of the chair, and, in a very gentle voice, whispered: 

“Verot, it’s Monsieur le Prefet speaking to you.  We should like a few particulars about what is to take place to-night.  Do you hear me, Verot?  If you hear me, close your eyelids.”

The eyelids were lowered.  But was it not merely chance?  Don Luis went on: