shared his
enthusiasm that a feeling of jealousy overcame him. He felt his prestige
diminishing, and hastened to add: "The idea had occurred to me; but I
could not give the order without warning the scoundrel himself."

This remark was superfluous. All the police agents had now gathered
around the murderer. They began by binding his feet and hands, and then
fastened him securely to a chair. He offered no resistance. His wild
excitement had given place to that gloomy prostration that follows all
unnatural efforts, either of mind or body. Evidently he had abandoned
himself to his fate.

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 hea