When Gevrol saw that the men had finished their task, he called on them to attend to the other inmates of the den, and in addition ordered the lamps to be lit for the fire was going out.  The inspector began his examination with the two men lying near the fireplace.  He laid his hand on their hearts, but no pulsations were to be detected.  He then held the face of his watch close to their lips, but the glass remained quite clear.  “Useless,” he murmured, after several trials, “useless; they are dead!  They will never see morning again.  Leave them in the same position until the arrival of the public prosecutor, and let us look at the other one.”

The third man still breathed.  He was a young fellow, wearing the uniform of a common soldier of the line.  He was unarmed, and his large bluish gray cloak was partly open, revealing his bare chest.  The agents lifted him very carefully—­for he groaned piteously at the slightest movement—­and placed him in an upright position, with his back leaning against the wall.  He soon opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for something to drink.  They brought him a glass of water, which he drank with evident satisfaction.  He then drew a long breath, and seemed to regain some little strength.

“Where are you wounded?” asked Gevrol.

“In the head, there,” he responded, trying to raise one of his arms.  “Oh! how I suffer.”

The police agent, who had cut off the murderer’s retreat now approached, and with a dexterity that an old surgeon might have envied, made an examination of the gaping wound which the young man had received in the back of the neck.  “It is nothing,” declared the police agent, but as he spoke there was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip.  It was evident that he considered the wound very dangerous, probably mortal.

“It will be nothing,” affirmed Gevrol in his turn; “wounds in the head, when they do not kill at once, are cured in a month.”

The wounded man smiled sadly.  “I have received my death blow,” he murmured.

“Nonsense!”

“Oh! it is useless to say anything; I feel it, but I do not complain.  I have only received my just deserts.”

All the police agents turned toward the murderer on hearing these words, presuming that he would take advantage of this opportunity to repeat his protestations of innocence.  But their expectations were disappointed; he did not speak, although he must certainly have heard the words.

“It was that brigand, Lacheneur, who enticed me here,” continued the wounded man, in a voice that was growing fainter.

“Lacheneur?”

“Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who knew me when I was rich—­for I had a fortune, but I spent it all; I wished to amuse myself.  He, knowing I was without a single sou in the world, came and promised me money enough to begin life over again.  Fool that I was to believe him, for he brought me to die here like a dog!  Oh!  I will have my revenge on him!” At this thought the wounded man clenched his hands threateningly.  “I will have my revenge,” he resumed.  “I know much more than he believes.  I will reveal everything.”