“Who is that speaking?...  The butler?  Ah!  Is Mme. d’Ersingen at home?...  No?...  Or Monsieur?...  Not he, either?...  Never mind, you can tell me what I want to know.  I am M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, and I need certain information.  At what time did Mme. Fauville come last night?...  What do you say?...  Are you sure?...  At two o’clock in the morning?...  Not before?...  And she went away?...  In ten minutes time?...  Good ...  But you’re certain you are not mistaken about the time when she arrived?  I must know this positively:  it is most important....  You say it was two o’clock in the morning?  Two o’clock in the morning?...  Very well....  Thank you.”

When M. Desmalions turned round, he saw Mme. Fauville standing beside him and looking at him with an expression of mad anguish.  And one and the same idea occurred to the mind of all the onlookers.  They were in the presence either of an absolutely innocent woman or else of an exceptional actress whose face lent itself to the most perfect simulation of innocence.

“What do you want?” she stammered.  “What does this mean?  Explain yourself!”

Then M. Desmalions asked simply: 

“What were you doing last night between half-past eleven in the evening and two o’clock in the morning?”

It was a terrifying question at the stage which the examination had reached, a fatal question implying: 

“If you cannot give us an exact and strict account of the way in which you employed your time while the crime was being committed, we have the right to conclude that you were not alien to the murder of your husband and stepson—­”

She understood it in this sense and staggered on her feet, moaning: 

“It’s horrible!... horrible!”

The Prefect repeated: 

“What were you doing?  The question must be quite easy to answer.”

“Oh,” she cried, in the same piteous tone, “how can you believe!...  Oh, no, no, it’s not possible!  How can you believe!”

“I believe nothing yet,” he said.  “Besides, you can establish the truth with a single word.”

It seemed, from the movement of her lips and the sudden gesture of resolution that shook her frame, as though she were about to speak that word.  But all at once she appeared stupefied and dumfounded, pronounced a few unintelligible syllables, and fell huddled into a chair, sobbing convulsively and uttering cries of despair.

It was tantamount to a confession.  At the very least, it was a confession of her inability to supply the plausible explanation which would have put an end to the discussion.

The Prefect of Police moved away from her and spoke in a low voice to the examining magistrate and the public prosecutor.  Perenna and Sergeant Mazeroux were left alone together, side by side.

Mazeroux whispered: 

“What did I tell you?  I knew you would find out!  Oh, what a man you are!  The way you managed!”