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Updated: May 1, 2025
He was stammering, weeping, wringing his hands, grimacing with every feature of his comic face. And it was really touching, this grief, this dismay at the approach of the danger that threatened his master. M. Desmalions's voice was heard in the hall, through the curtain that closed the passage. A third motor car stopped on the boulevard, and a fourth, both doubtless laden with policemen.
"Therefore, until we have proofs to the contrary, we are bound to believe that it was not opened from the outside, and that the criminal was inside the house." "But, Monsieur le Préfet, there was no one here but Sergeant Mazeroux and myself!" There was a silence, a pause whose meaning admitted of no doubt. M. Desmalions's next words gave it an even more precise value.
He knew that, in such circumstances as the present, the man before him was not the man to indulge in jesting. And he knew it so fully that, instinctively, accustomed as he was to momentous political questions in which secrecy is of the utmost importance, he cast a glance toward the Prefect of Police, as though M. Desmalions's presence in the room hindered him.
The fight which he had been obliged to wage against the man whom he still called "the chief" had often distressed him to the point of tears. This time he was coming to help him, perhaps to save his life. That afternoon the deputy chief had ceased his search of the house, by M. Desmalions's orders, as Don Luis's escape seemed certain, and left only three men on duty.
As for Weber, he put his two hands in his pockets, walked past with the look of a muzzled mastiff, and gave his enemy a glance of fierce hatred. "By Jupiter!" thought Don Luis. "There's a fellow who won't miss me when he gets the chance to shoot!" Looking through a window, he saw M. Desmalions's motor car drive off.
It was five o'clock exactly when Major Comte d'Astrignac, Maître Lepertuis, and the secretary of the American Embassy were shown into M. Desmalions's office. At the same moment some one entered the messengers' room and handed in his card.
M. Desmalions's silence gave Don Luis leave to speak. He at once continued: "It will not take long, Monsieur le Préfet. It will not take long for two reasons: first, because M. Fauville's confessions remain at our disposal and we know definitely the monstrous part which he played; and, secondly, because, after all, the truth, however complicated it may seem, is really very simple.
Their expectations were disappointed; and this was M. Desmalions's fault. In spite of the express opinion of Don Luis, who deprecated the experiment as useless, the Prefect had decided not to turn off the electric light, so that he might see if the light would prevent the miracle. Under these conditions no letter could appear, and no letter did appear.
"Are you sure?" "Here is his card, sir." Perenna took the card from the tray and read M. Desmalions's name. He went to the window, opened it and, with the aid of the overhead mirror, looked into the Place du Palais-Bourbon. Half a dozen men were walking about. He recognized them.
Perenna took the photograph which the Prefect handed him and gave a start that did not escape M. Desmalions's eye. "Do you know the lady?" "No. No, Monsieur le Préfet. I thought I did; but no, there's merely a resemblance a family likeness, which I will verify if you can leave the photograph with me till this evening." "Till this evening, yes.
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