“Monsieur le Secretaire, we’ve got ... we’ve got to ...  It’s for to-night.  Nothing can prevent—­”

Stiffening himself with an effort of his whole will, he made for the door of the secretary’s room with little short steps, like an automaton.  But he reeled on the way—­and had to sit down a second time.

A mad terror shook him from head to foot; and he uttered cries which were too faint, unfortunately, to be heard.  He realized this and looked round for a bell, for a gong; but he was no longer able to distinguish anything.  A veil of darkness seemed to weigh upon his eyes.

Then he dropped on his knees and crawled to the wall, beating the air with one hand, like a blind man, until he ended by touching some woodwork.  It was the partition-wall.

He crept along this; but, as ill-luck would have it, his bewildered brain showed him a false picture of the room, so that, instead of turning to the left as he should have done, he followed the wall to the right, behind a screen which concealed a third door.

His fingers touched the handle of this door and he managed to open it.  He gasped, “Help!  Help!” and fell at his full length in a sort of cupboard or closet which the Prefect of Police used as a dressing-room.

“To-night!” he moaned, believing that he was making himself heard and that he was in the secretary’s room.  “To-night!  The job is fixed for to-night!  You’ll see ...  The mark of the teeth! ...  It’s awful! ...  Oh, the pain I’m in! ...  It’s the poison!  Save me!  Help!”

The voice died away.  He repeated several times, as though in a nightmare: 

“The teeth! the teeth!  They’re closing!”

Then his voice grew fainter still; and inarticulate sounds issued from his pallid lips.  His mouth munched the air like the mouth of one of those old men who seem to be interminably chewing the cud.  His head sank lower and lower on his breast.  He heaved two or three sighs; a great shiver passed through his body; and he moved no more.

And the death-rattle began in his throat, very softly and rhythmically, broken only by interruptions in which a last instinctive effort appeared to revive the flickering life of the intelligence, and to rouse fitful gleams of consciousness in the dimmed eyes.

The Prefect of Police entered his office at ten minutes to five.  M. Desmalions, who had filled his post for the past three years with an authority that made him generally respected, was a heavily built man of fifty with a shrewd and intelligent face.  His dress, consisting of a gray jacket-suit, white spats, and a loosely flowing tie, in no way suggested the public official.  His manners were easy, simple, and full of good-natured frankness.

He touched a bell, and when his secretary entered, asked: 

“Are the people whom I sent for here?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Prefet, and I gave orders that they were to wait in different rooms.”