he journalist then rapped smartly on the
panel of the door. A voice, a woman's voice, that an attempt was
evidently being made to disguise asked: "Who is there?"

The commissary replied: "Open, in the name of the law."

The voice repeated: "Who are you?"

"I am the commissary of police. Open the door, or I will have it broken
in."

The voice went on: "What do you want?"

Du Roy said: "It is I. It is useless to seek to escape."

The light steps, the tread of bare feet, was heard to withdraw, and then
in a few seconds to return.

George said: "If you won't open, we will break in the door."

He grasped the handle, and pushed slowly with his shoulder. As there
was no longer any reply, he suddenly gave such a violent and vigorous
shock that the old lock gave way. The screws were torn out of the wood,
and he almost fell over Madeleine, who was standing in the ante-room,
clad in a chemise and petticoat, her hair down, her legs bare, and a
candle in her hand.

He exclaimed: "It is she, we have them," and darted forward into the
rooms. The commissary, having taken off his hat, followed him, and the
startled woman came after, lighting the way. They crossed a
drawing-room, the uncleaned table of which displayed the remnants of a
repast--empty champagne bottles, an open pot of fatted goose liver, the
body of a fowl, and some half-eaten bits of bread. Two plates piled on
the sideboard were piled with oyster shells.

The bedroom seemed disordered, as though by a struggle. A dress was
thrown over a chair, a pair of trousers hung astride the arm of another.
Four boots, two large and two small, lay on their sides at the foot of
the bed. It was the room of a house let out in furnished lodgings, with
commonplace furniture, filled with that hateful and sickening smell of
all such places, the odor of all the people who had slept or lived there
a day or six months. A plate of cakes, a bottle of chartreuse, and two
liqueur glasses, still half full, encumbered the mantel-shelf. The upper
part of the bronze clock was hidden by a man's hat.

The commissary turned round sharply, and looking Madeleine straight in
the face, said: "You are Madame Claire Madeleine Du Roy, wife of
Monsieur Prosper George Du Roy, journalist, here present?"

She uttered in a choking voice: "Yes, sir."

"What are you doing here?" She did not answer.

The commissary went on: "What are you doing here? I find you away from
home, almost undressed, in furnish