r accomplice."

"My accomplice?"

"Yes, Mme. Fauville."

"Mme. Fauville!"

Gaston Sauverand had uttered the same cry as when he heard of the death
of the engineer; and his stupefaction seemed even greater, combined as it
was with an anguish that distorted his features beyond recognition.

"What?... What?... What do you say? Marie!... No, you don't mean it! It's
not true!"

M. Desmalions considered it useless to reply, so absurd and childish
was this affectation of knowing nothing about the tragedy on the
Boulevard Suchet.

Gaston Sauverand, beside himself, with his eyes starting from his
head, muttered:

"Is it true? Is Marie the victim of the same mistake as myself? Perhaps
they have arrested her? She, she in prison!"

He raised his clenched fists in a threatening manner against all the
unknown enemies by whom he was surrounded, against those who were
persecuting him, those who had murdered Hippolyte Fauville and delivered
Marie Fauville to the police.

Mazeroux and Chief Inspector Ancenis took hold of him roughly. He made a
movement of resistance, as though he intended to thrust back his
aggressors. But it was only momentary; and he sank into a chair and
covered his face with his hands:

"What a mystery!" he stammered. "I don't understand! I don't
understand--"

Weber, who had gone out a few minutes before, returned. M.
Desmalions asked:

"Is everything ready?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Prefet, I have had the taxi brought up to the gate
beside your car."

"How many of you are there?"

"Eight. Two detectives have just arrived from the commissary's."

"Have you searched the house?"

"Yes. It's almost empty, however. There's nothing but the indispensable
articles of furniture and some bundles of papers in the bedroom."

"Very well. Take him away and keep a sharp lookout."

Gaston Sauverand walked off quietly between the deputy chief and
Mazeroux. He turned round in the doorway.

"Monsieur le Prefet, as you are making a search, I entreat you to take
care of the papers on the table in my bedroom. They are notes that have
cost me a great deal of labour in the small hours of the night. Also--"

He hesitated, obviously embarrassed.

"Well?"

"Well, Monsieur le Prefet, I must tell you--something--"

He was looking for his words and seemed to fear the consequences of them
at the same time that he uttered them. But he suddenly made up his mind.

"Monsieur le Prefet, there is in this house--somewhere-