“Just so, just so,” said M. Desmalions.  “Well, curiously enough, that syllable happens to be—­But wait, we’ll verify our facts—­”

M. Desmalions searched hurriedly among the letters which his secretary had handed him on his arrival and which lay on a corner of the table.

“Ah, here we are!” he exclaimed, glancing at the signature of one of the letters.  “Here we are!  It’s as I thought:  ‘Fauville.’ ...  The first syllable is the same....  Look, ‘Fauville,’ just like that, without Christian name or initials.  The letter must have been written in a feverish moment:  there is no date nor address....  The writing is shaky—­”

And M. Desmalions read out: 

“Monsieur le Prefet: 

“A great danger is hanging over my head and over the head of my son.  Death is approaching apace.  I shall have to-night, or to-morrow morning at the latest, the proofs of the abominable plot that threatens us.  I ask leave to bring them to you in the course of the morning.  I am in need of protection and I call for your assistance.

“Permit me to be, etc.  Fauville.”

“No other designation?” asked Perenna.  “No letter-heading?”

“None.  But there is no mistake.  Inspector Verot’s declarations agree too evidently with this despairing appeal.  It is clearly M. Fauville and his son who are to be murdered to-night.  And the terrible thing is that, as this name of Fauville is a very common one, it is impossible for our inquiries to succeed in time.”

“What, Monsieur le Prefet?  Surely, by straining every nerve—­”

“Certainly, we will strain every nerve; and I shall set all my men to work.  But observe that we have not the slightest clue.”

“Oh, it would be awful!” cried Don Luis.  “Those two creatures doomed to death; and we unable to save them!  Monsieur le Prefet, I ask you to authorize me—­”

He had not finished speaking when the Prefect’s private secretary entered with a visiting-card in his hand.

“Monsieur le Prefet, this caller was so persistent....  I hesitated—­”

M. Desmalions took the card and uttered an exclamation of mingled surprise and joy.

“Look, Monsieur,” he said to Perenna.

And he handed him the card.

 Hippolyte Fauville,
   Civil Engineer.
14 bis Boulevard Suchet.

“Come,” said M. Desmalions, “chance is favouring us.  If this M. Fauville is one of the Roussel heirs, our task becomes very much easier.”

“In any case, Monsieur le Prefet,” the solicitor interposed, “I must remind you that one of the clauses of the will stipulates that it shall not be read until forty-eight hours have elapsed.  M. Fauville, therefore, must not be informed—­”

The door was pushed open and a man hustled the messenger aside and rushed in.

“Inspector ...  Inspector Verot?” he spluttered.  “He’s dead, isn’t he?  I was told—­”