ft. Now! Attention!"

Bernardet took his position and the porter stood ready, match and wire
in hand, like a gunner who awaits the order to fire.

"Go!" said the agent.

A rapid, clear flame shot up; and suddenly lighted the room.
The pale face seemed livid, the various objects in the room
took on a fantastic appearance, in this sort of tempestuous
apotheosis, and Paul Rodier hastily inscribed on his writing pad:
"Picturesque--bizarre--marvelous--devilish--suggestive."

"Let us try it again," said M. Bernardet.

For the third time in this weird light the visage of the dead man
appeared, whiter, more sinister, frightful; the wound deeper, the gash
redder; and the eyes, those wide-open, fixed, tragic, menacing, speaking
eyes--eyes filled with scorn, with hate, with terror, with the ferocious
resistance of a last struggle for life; immovable, eloquent--seemed
under the fantastic light to glitter, to be alive, to menace some one.

"That is all," said Bernardet, very softly. "If with these three
negatives"----

He stopped to look around toward the door, which was closed. Someone was
raining ringing blows on the door, loud and imperative.

"It is the Commissary; open the door, Moniche."

The reporter was busy taking notes, describing the salon, sketching it,
drawing a plan for his journal.

It was, in fact, the Commissary, who was followed by Mme. Moniche and a
number of curious persons who had forced their way in when the front
door was opened.

The Commissary, before entering, took a comprehensive survey of the
room, and said in a short tone: "Every one must go out. Madame, make all
these people go out. No one must enter."

There arose an uproar--each one tried to explain his right to be there.
They were all possessed with an irresistible desire to assist at this
sinister investigation.

"But we belong to the press!"

"The reporters may enter when they have showed their cards," the
Commissary replied. "The others--no!" There was a murmur from the crowd.

"The others--no!" repeated the Commissary. He made a sign to two
officers who accompanied him, and they demanded the reporters' cards of
identification. The concourse of curious ones rebelled, protested,
growled and declaimed against the representatives of the press, who took
precedence everywhere.

"The Fourth Power!" shouted an old man from the foot of the staircase.
He lived in the house and passed for a correspondent of the Institute.
He shouted fur