“Yes, I do:  it’s he.”

“Who?”

“The man with the ebony stick.  He’s cut off his beard and shaved his face, but I knew him for all that.  It was the man who was taking pot-shots at us yesterday morning, from the top of his stairs on the Boulevard Richard-Wallace, the one who killed Inspector Ancenis.  The blackguard!  How did he know that I had spent the night at Fauville’s?  Have I been followed then and spied on?  But by whom?  And why?  And how?”

Mazeroux reflected and said: 

“Remember, Chief, you telephoned to me in the afternoon to give me an appointment.  For all you know, in spite of lowering your voice, you may have been heard by somebody at your place.”

Don Luis did not answer.  He thought of Florence.

That morning Don Luis’s letters were not brought to him by Mlle. Levasseur, nor did he send for her.  He caught sight of her several times giving orders to the new servants.  She must afterward have gone back to her room, for he did not see her again.

In the afternoon he rang for his car and drove to the house on the Boulevard Suchet, to pursue with Mazeroux, by the Prefect’s instructions, a search that led to no result whatever.

It was ten o’clock when he came in.  The detective sergeant and he had some dinner together.  Afterward, wishing also to examine the home of the man with the ebony stick, he got into his car again, still accompanied by Mazeroux, and told the man to drive to the Boulevard Richard-Wallace.

The car crossed the Seine and followed the right bank.

“Faster,” he said to his new chauffeur, through the speaking-tube.  “I’m accustomed to go at a good pace.”

“You’ll have an upset one fine day, Chief,” said Mazeroux.

“No fear,” replied Don Luis.  “Motor accidents are reserved for fools.”

They reached the Place de l’Alma.  The car turned to the left.

“Straight ahead!” cried Don Luis.  “Go up by the Trocadero.”

The car veered back again.  But suddenly it gave three or four lurches in the road, took the pavement, ran into a tree and fell over on its side.

In a few seconds a dozen people were standing round.  They broke one of the windows and opened the door.  Don Luis was the first.

“It’s nothing,” he said.  “I’m all right.  And you, Alexandre?”

They helped the sergeant out.  He had a few bruises and a little pain, but no serious injury.

Only the chauffeur had been thrown from his seat and lay motionless on the pavement, bleeding from the head.  He was carried into a chemist’s shop and died in ten minutes.

Mazeroux had gone in with the poor victim and, feeling pretty well stunned, had himself been given a pick-me-up.  When he went back to the motor car he found two policemen entering particulars of the accident in their notebooks and taking evidence from the bystanders; but the chief was not there.