“Oh, never!  The man of whom you speak is incapable—­”

“Ah,” he cried, overcome with jealousy, “you confess it!  So the man of whom I speak exists!  I swear that the villain—­”

He turned toward M. Desmalions, his face convulsed with hatred.  He made no further effort to contain himself: 

“Monsieur le Prefet, we are in sight of the goal.  I know the road that will lead us to it.  The wild beast shall be hunted down to-night, or to-morrow at least.  Monsieur le Prefet, the letter that accompanied those documents, the unsigned letter which this young lady handed you, was written by the mother superior who manages a nursing-home in the Avenue des Ternes.

“By making immediate inquiries at that nursing-home, by questioning the superior and confronting her with Mlle. Levasseur, we shall discover the identity of the criminal himself.  But we must not lose a minute, or we shall be too late and the wild beast will have fled.”

His outburst was irresistible.  There was no fighting against the violence of his conviction.  Still, M. Desmalions objected: 

“Mlle. Levasseur could tell us—­”

“She will not speak, or at least not till later, when the man has been unmasked in her presence.  Monsieur le Prefet, I entreat you to have the same confidence in me as before.  Have not all my promises been fulfilled?  Have confidence, Monsieur le Prefet; cast aside your doubts.  Remember how Marie Fauville and Gaston Sauverand were overwhelmed with charges, the most serious charges, and how they succumbed in spite of their innocence.

“Does the law wish to see Florence Levasseur sacrificed as the two others were?  And, besides, what I ask for is not her release, but the means to defend her—­that is to say, an hour or two’s delay.  Let Deputy Chief Weber be responsible for her safe custody.  Let your detectives go with us:  these and more as well, for we cannot have too many to capture the loathsome brute in his lair.”

M. Desmalions did not reply.  After a brief moment he took Weber aside and talked to him for some minutes.  M. Desmalions did not seem very favourably disposed toward Don Luis’s request.  But Weber was heard to say: 

“You need have no fear, Monsieur le Prefet.  We run no risk.”

And M. Desmalions yielded.

A few moments later Don Luis Perenna and Florence Levasseur took their seats in a motor car with Weber and two inspectors.  Another car, filled with detectives, followed.

The hospital was literally invested by the police force and Weber neglected none of the precautions of a regular siege.

The Prefect of Police, who arrived in his own car, was shown by the manservant into the waiting-room and then into the parlour, where the mother superior came to him at once.  Without delay or preamble of any sort he put his questions to her, in the presence of Don Luis, Weber, and Florence: 

“Reverend mother,” he said, “I have a letter here which was brought to me at headquarters and which tells me of the existence of certain documents concerning a legacy.  According to my information, this letter, which is unsigned and which is in a disguised hand, was written by you.  Is that so?”