Without replying to the question, the Prefect of Police asked him: 

“So your real name is—­”

“Gaston Sauverand.”

“Why do you call yourself Hubert Lautier?”

The man had a second of indecision which did not escape so clear-sighted an observer as M. Desmalions.  He swayed from side to side, his eyes flickered and he said: 

“That does not concern the police; it concerns no one but myself.”

M. Desmalions smiled: 

“That is a poor argument.  Will you use the same when I ask you why you live in hiding, why you left the Avenue du Roule, where you used to live, without leaving an address behind you, and why you receive your letters at the post-office under initials?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Prefet, those are matters of a private character, which affect only my conscience.  You have no right to question me about them.”

“That is the exact reply which we are constantly receiving at every moment from your accomplice.”

“My accomplice?”

“Yes, Mme. Fauville.”

“Mme. Fauville!”

Gaston Sauverand had uttered the same cry as when he heard of the death of the engineer; and his stupefaction seemed even greater, combined as it was with an anguish that distorted his features beyond recognition.

“What?...  What?...  What do you say?  Marie!...  No, you don’t mean it!  It’s not true!”

M. Desmalions considered it useless to reply, so absurd and childish was this affectation of knowing nothing about the tragedy on the Boulevard Suchet.

Gaston Sauverand, beside himself, with his eyes starting from his head, muttered: 

“Is it true?  Is Marie the victim of the same mistake as myself?  Perhaps they have arrested her?  She, she in prison!”

He raised his clenched fists in a threatening manner against all the unknown enemies by whom he was surrounded, against those who were persecuting him, those who had murdered Hippolyte Fauville and delivered Marie Fauville to the police.

Mazeroux and Chief Inspector Ancenis took hold of him roughly.  He made a movement of resistance, as though he intended to thrust back his aggressors.  But it was only momentary; and he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands: 

“What a mystery!” he stammered.  “I don’t understand!  I don’t understand—­”

Weber, who had gone out a few minutes before, returned.  M. Desmalions asked: 

“Is everything ready?”

“Yes, Monsieur le Prefet, I have had the taxi brought up to the gate beside your car.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Eight.  Two detectives have just arrived from the commissary’s.”

“Have you searched the house?”

“Yes.  It’s almost empty, however.  There’s nothing but the indispensable articles of furniture and some bundles of papers in the bedroom.”

“Very well.  Take him away and keep a sharp lookout.”