“I have my duty, that is enough,” he said in the same tone, “Get up, Madame Didier, and let me know the truth of all this matter.  This explains your unwillingness that I should return with you.  Who’s the man?”

“My husband, monsieur,” sobbed Marie, springing up and putting her hand in Jean’s.

“How came he here?”

“Monsieur, he escaped and crawled here.”

“And how has he been supported?”

“By me,” said the wife simply.

Plon had recoiled during this explanation, and gazed helplessly from one to the other.

“Go on,” said Leblanc, taking out a note-book.

“He has not been out of this room for three years—­three years!  That is a long time for a man to be shut up,” pleaded Marie, with her heart in her eyes.  “And, M. le Commissaire, you must understand it was all a mistake.  He tried to stop them, but they dragged him along, the Communists, and then one of them turns round and denounces him.  There are very wicked people in the world, M. le Commissaire.”

“His name?”

Jean answered for her: 

“The name of that man was Fort.”

Leblanc turned the pages of his note-book more quickly.”  Dumont—­Court—­ah, here it is, ’Jean Didier, glazier, with insurgents; pointed out as Communist by one Fort; executed on spot.’  Is that correct?”

“He was innocent,” said Marie, nervously twisting her fingers.

“But am I to understand that you deny his identity?” said the officer, turning sharply on Plon.  “Speak up, man!”

M. Plon looked round, bewildered.  “How could he have got into the house?”

“Never mind that.  What we want is ‘yes’ or ‘no’ Is it Jean Didier?  Come close and see for yourself.”

“It is like him,” said the landlord, examining him from head to foot, “certainly it is like him; I could almost believe it was he, only—­how could he have got into the house?”

“As to that—­where there’s a woman—­” said Leblanc, turning away.  They were all watching him, except Perine, who was sobbing stormily on the wooden stool, and he said shortly, “There is something more in my note-book.”

“More!” repeated Jean with alarm.

“Would you rather not have it?”

Marie, who had not taken her eyes from him, advanced with her hands pressed upon her heart.

“Courage, my friend,” she said breathlessly.  “Yes, M. le
Commissaire, we will hear.”

It had struck her that he was smiling.

He began to read in his sing-song voice, “Fort, convicted of forgery, died last month in the Grande Roquette.  Before his death he confessed his denunciation of Jean Didier to have been false.”

Jean Didier’s wife turned round, opened her arms and fell upon her husband’s neck, speechless.

* * * * *