The wind had quite gone down by now.  The lamp scarcely flickered as Grosjean held it above his head.

“Just here, citizen Tournefort,” he said, and turned sharply to his left.  But the next sound which he uttered was a loud croak of astonishment.

“That door has been out of use ever since I’ve been here,” he muttered.

“And it certainly was closed when I stood up against it,” rejoined Tournefort, with a savage oath, “or, of course, I should have noticed it.”

Close to the lodge, at right angles to it, a door stood partially open.  Tournefort went through it, closely followed by Grosjean.  He found himself in a passage which ended in a cul de sac on his right; on the left was the foot of the stairs.  The whole place was pitch dark save for the feeble light of the lamp.  The cul de sac itself reeked of dirt and fustiness, as if it had not been cleaned or ventilated for years.

“When did you last notice that this door was closed?” queried Tournefort, furious with the sense of discomfiture, which he would have liked to vent on the unfortunate concierge.

“I have not noticed it for some days, citizen,” replied Grosjean meekly.  “I have had a severe cold, and have not been outside my lodge since Monday last.  But we’ll ask Amelie!” he added more hopefully.

Amelie, however, could throw no light upon the subject.  She certainly kept the back stairs cleaned and swept, but it was not part of her duties to extend her sweeping operations as far as the cul de sac.  She had quite enough to do as it was, with grandfather now practically helpless.  This morning, when she went out to do her shopping, she had not noticed whether the disused door did or did not look the same as usual.

Grosjean was very sorry for his friend Tournefort, who appeared vastly upset, but still more sorry for himself, for he knew what endless trouble this would entail upon him.

Nor was the trouble slow in coming, not only on Grosjean, but on every lodger inside the house; for before half an hour had gone by Tournefort had gone and come back, this time with the local commissary of police and a couple of agents, who had every man, woman and child in that house out of bed and examined at great length, their identity books searchingly overhauled, their rooms turned topsy-turvy and their furniture knocked about.

It was past midnight before all these perquisitions were completed.  No one dared to complain at these indignities put upon peaceable citizens on the mere denunciation of an obscure police agent.  These were times when every regulation, every command, had to be accepted without a murmur.  At one o’clock in the morning, Grosjean himself was thankful to get back to bed, having satisfied the commissary that he was not a dangerous conspirator.

But of anyone even remotely approaching the description of the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy, or of any man called Bertin, there was not the faintest trace.