which belonged to
the coachman and which were generally confined to the stables. They were
playing with a twist of red string which kept catching on to things, to
the railings of the steps, to the flower vases. In the end, the paper
round which the string was wound, appeared. Don Luis happened to pass at
that moment. His eyes noticed marks of writing on the paper, and he
mechanically picked it up and unfolded it.

He gave a start. He had at once recognized the opening lines of the
article printed in the _Echo de France_. And the whole article was there,
written in ink, on ruled paper, with erasures, and with sentences added,
struck out, and begun anew.

He called the coachman and asked him:

"Where does this ball of string come from?"

"The string, sir? Why, from the harness-room, I think. It must have been
that little she-devil of a Mirza who--"

"And when did you wind the string round the paper?"

"Yesterday evening, Monsieur."

"Yesterday evening. I see. And where is the paper from?"

"Upon my word, Monsieur, I can't say. I wanted something to wind my
string on. I picked this bit up behind the coach-house where they fling
all the rubbish of the house to be taken into the street at night."

Don Luis pursued his investigations. He questioned or asked Mlle.
Levasseur to question the other servants. He discovered nothing; but one
fact remained: the article in the _Echo de France_ had been written, as
the rough draft which he had picked up proved, by somebody who lived in
the house or who was in touch with one of the people in the house.

The enemy was inside the fortress.

But what enemy? And what did he want? Merely Perenna's arrest?

All the remainder of the afternoon Don Luis continued anxious, annoyed by
the mystery that surrounded him, incensed at his own inaction, and
especially at that threatened arrest, which certainly caused him no
uneasiness, but which hampered his movements.

Accordingly, when he was told at about ten o'clock that a man who gave
the name of Alexandre insisted on seeing him, he had the man shown in;
and when he found himself face to face with Mazeroux, but Mazeroux
disguised beyond recognition and huddled in an old cloak, he flung
himself on him as on a prey, hustling and shaking him.

"So it's you, at last?" he cried. "Well, what did I tell you? You can't
make head or tail of things at the police office and you've come for me!
Confess it, you numskull! You've come to fetch me!