“Yes, Monsieur, he is dead.”

“Too late!  I’m too late!” he stammered.

And he sank into a chair, clasping his hands and sobbing: 

“Oh, the scoundrels! the scoundrels!”

He was a pale, hollow-cheeked, sickly looking man of about fifty.  His head was bald, above a forehead lined with deep wrinkles.  A nervous twitching affected his chin and the lobes of his ears.  Tears stood in his eyes.

The Prefect asked: 

“Whom do you mean, Monsieur?  Inspector Verot’s murderers?  Are you able to name them, to assist our inquiry?”

Hippolyte Fauville shook his head.

“No, no, it would be useless, for the moment....  My proofs would not be sufficient....  No, really not.”

He had already risen from his chair and stood apologizing: 

“Monsieur le Prefet, I have disturbed you unnecessarily, but I wanted to know....  I was hoping that Inspector Verot might have escaped....  His evidence, joined to mine, would have been invaluable.  But perhaps he was able to tell you?”

“No, he spoke of this evening—­of to-night—­”

Hippolyte Fauville started.

“This evening!  Then the time has come!...  But no, it’s impossible, they can’t do anything to me yet....  They are not ready—­”

“Inspector Verot declared, however, that the double murder would be committed to-night.”

“No, Monsieur le Prefet, he was wrong there....  I know all about it....  To-morrow evening at the earliest ... and we will catch them in a trap....  Oh, the scoundrels!”

Don Luis went up to him and asked: 

“Your mother’s name was Ermeline Roussel, was it not?”

“Yes, Ermeline Roussel.  She is dead now.”

“And she was from Saint-Etienne?”

“Yes.  But why these questions?”

“Monsieur le Prefet will tell you to-morrow.  One word more.”  He opened the cardboard box left by Inspector Verot.  “Does this cake of chocolate mean anything to you?  These marks?”

“Oh, how awful!” said the civil engineer, in a hoarse tone.  “Where did the inspector find it?”

He dropped into his chair again, but only for a moment; then, drawing himself up, he hurried toward the door with a jerky step.

“I’m going, Monsieur le Prefet, I’m going.  To-morrow morning I’ll show you....  I shall have all the proofs....  And the police will protect me....  I am ill, I know, but I want to live!  I have the right to live ... and my son, too....  And we will live....  Oh, the scoundrels!—­”

And he ran, stumbling out, like a drunken man.

M. Desmalions rose hastily.

“I shall have inquiries made about that man’s circumstances....  I shall have his house watched.  I’ve telephoned to the detective office already.  I’m expecting some one in whom I have every confidence.”

Don Luis said: 

“Monsieur le Prefet, I beg you, with an earnestness which you will understand, to authorize me to pursue the investigation.  Cosmo Mornington’s will makes it my duty and, allow me to say, gives me the right to do so.  M. Fauville’s enemies have given proofs of extraordinary cleverness and daring.  I want to have the honour of being at the post of danger to-night, at M. Fauville’s house, near his person.”