He raised the lid.  Inside the box were a few layers of cotton wool, which were also rather dirty, and in between these layers was half a cake of chocolate.

“What the devil does this mean?” growled the Prefect in surprise.

He took the chocolate, looked at it, and at once perceived what was peculiar about this cake of chocolate, which was also undoubtedly the reason why Inspector Verot had kept it.  Above and below, it bore the prints of teeth, very plainly marked, very plainly separated one from the other, penetrating to a depth of a tenth of an inch or so into the chocolate.  Each possessed its individual shape and width, and each was divided from its neighbours by a different interval.  The jaws which had started eating the cake of chocolate had dug into it the mark of four upper and five lower teeth.

M. Desmalions remained wrapped in thought and, with his head sunk on his chest, for some minutes resumed his walk up and down the room, muttering: 

“This is queer ...  There’s a riddle here to which I should like to know the answer.  That sheet of paper, the marks of those teeth:  what does it all mean?”

But he was not the man to waste much time over a mystery which was bound to be cleared up presently, as Inspector Verot must be either at the police office or somewhere just outside; and he said to his secretary: 

“I can’t keep those five gentlemen waiting any longer.  Please have them shown in now.  If Inspector Verot arrives while they are here, as he is sure to do, let me know at once.  I want to see him as soon as he comes.  Except for that, see that I’m not disturbed on any pretext, won’t you?”

* * * * *

Two minutes later the messenger showed in Maitre Lepertuis, a stout, red-faced man, with whiskers and spectacles, followed by Archibald Bright, the Secretary of Embassy, and Caceres, the Peruvian attache.  M. Desmalions, who knew all three of them, chatted to them until he stepped forward to receive Major Comte d’Astrignac, the hero of La Chouia, who had been forced into premature retirement by his glorious wounds.  The Prefect was complimenting him warmly on his gallant conduct in Morocco when the door opened once more.

“Don Luis Perenna, I believe?” said the Prefect, offering his hand to a man of middle height and rather slender build, wearing the military medal and the red ribbon of the Legion of Honour.

The newcomer’s face and expression, his way of holding himself, and his very youthful movements inclined one to look upon him as a man of forty, though there were wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and on the forehead, which perhaps pointed to a few years more.  He bowed.

“Yes, Monsieur le Prefet.”

“Is that you, Perenna?” cried Comte d’Astrignae.  “So you are still among the living?”

“Yes, Major, and delighted to see you again.”

“Perenna alive!  Why, we had lost all sight of you when I left Morocco!  We thought you dead.”