“What’s happening?”

The deputy chief did not reply.  Two detectives, the chief inspector, the commissary, and himself entered the house, while the others remained in the courtyard and made any attempt at flight impossible.

The meeting took place on the first floor.  The man had come down, fully dressed, with his hat on his head; and the deputy chief roared: 

“Stop!  Hands up!  Are you Hubert Lautier?”

The man seemed disconcerted.  Five revolvers were levelled at him.  And yet no sign of fear showed in his face; and he simply said: 

“What do you want, Monsieur?  What are you here for?”

“We are here in the name of the law, with a warrant for your arrest.”

“A warrant for my arrest?”

“A warrant for the arrest of Hubert Lautier, residing at 8 Boulevard Richard-Wallace.”

“But it’s absurd!” said the man.  “It’s incredible!  What does it mean?  What for?”

They took him by both arms, without his offering the least resistance, pushed him into a fairly large room containing no furniture but three rush-bottomed chairs, an armchair, and a table covered with big books.

“There,” said the deputy chief.  “Don’t stir.  If you attempt to move, so much the worse for you.”

The man made no protest.  While the two detectives held him by the collar, he seemed to be reflecting, as though he were trying to understand the secret causes of an arrest for which he was totally unprepared.  He had an intelligent face, a reddish-brown beard, and a pair of blue-gray eyes which now and again showed a certain hardness of expression behind his glasses.  His broad shoulders and powerful neck pointed to physical strength.

“Shall we tie his wrists?” Mazeroux asked the deputy chief.

“One second.  The Prefect’s coming; I can hear him.  Have you searched the man’s pockets?  Any weapons?”

“No.”

“No flask, no phial?  Nothing suspicious?”

“No, nothing.”

M. Desmalions arrived and, while watching the prisoner’s face, talked in a low voice with the deputy chief and received the particulars of the arrest.

“This is good business,” he said.  “We wanted this.  Now that both accomplices are in custody, they will have to speak; and everything will be cleared up.  So there was no resistance?”

“None at all, Monsieur le Prefet.”

“No matter, we will remain on our guard.”

The prisoner had not uttered a word, but still wore a thoughtful look, as though trying to understand the inexplicable events of the last few minutes.  Nevertheless, when he realized that the newcomer was none other than the Prefect of Police, he raised his head and looked at M. Desmalions, who asked him: 

“It is unnecessary to tell you the cause of your arrest, I presume?”

He replied, in a deferential tone: 

“Excuse me, Monsieur le Prefet, but I must ask you, on the contrary, to inform me.  I have not the least idea of the reason.  Your detectives have made a grave mistake which a word, no doubt, will be enough to set right.  That word I wish for, I insist upon—­”