“Why?”

“You’ll wake him up.”

“But you can see I’m not waking him,” said Mazeroux, without lowering his tone.

“That’s true, that’s true,” whispered Don Luis, astonished that the sound of that voice had not disturbed the sleeper.

And he felt himself overcome with the same anguish that had seized upon him in the middle of the night, a more clearly defined anguish, although he would not, although he dared not, try to realize the reason of it.

“What’s the matter with you, Chief?  You’re looking like nothing on earth.  What is it?”

“Nothing—­nothing.  I’m frightened—­”

Mazeroux shuddered.

“Frightened of what?  You say that just as he did last night.”

“Yes ... yes ... and for the same reason.”

“But—?”

“Don’t you understand?  Don’t you understand that I’m wondering—?”

“No; what?”

“If he’s not dead!”

“But you’re mad, Chief!”

“No....  I don’t know....  Only, only ...  I have an impression of death—­”

Lantern in hand, he stood as one paralyzed, opposite the bed; and he who was afraid of nothing in the world had not the courage to throw the light on Hippolyte Fauville’s face.  A terrifying silence rose and filled the room.

“Oh, Chief, he’s not moving!”

“I know ...  I know ... and I now see that he has not moved once during the night.  And that’s what frightens me.”

He had to make a real effort in order to step forward.  He was now almost touching the bed.

The engineer did not appear to breathe.

This time, Perenna resolutely took hold of his hand.

It was icy cold.

Don Luis at once recovered all his self-possession.

“The window!  Open the window!” he cried.

And, when the light flooded the room, he saw the face of Hippolyte Fauville all swollen, stained with brown patches.

“Oh,” he said, under his breath, “he’s dead!”

“Dash it all!  Dash it all!” spluttered the detective sergeant.

For two or three minutes they stood petrified, stupefied, staggered at the sight of this most astonishing and mysterious phenomenon.  Then a sudden idea made Perenna start.  He flew up the winding staircase, rushed along the gallery, and darted into the attic.

Edmond, Hippolyte Fauville’s son, lay stiff and stark on his bed, with a cadaverous face, dead, too.

“Dash it all!  Dash it all!” repeated Mazeroux.

Never, perhaps, in the course of his adventurous career, had Perenna experienced such a knockdown blow.  It gave him a feeling of extreme lassitude, depriving him of all power of speech or movement.  Father and son were dead!  They had been killed during that night!  A few hours earlier, though the house was watched and every outlet hermetically closed, both had been poisoned by an infernal puncture, even as Inspector Verot was poisoned, even as Cosmo Mornington was poisoned.