Opposite them, on the threshold of a wide-open door leading into an adjoining room, stood a young man, a heavy oaken table forming a rampart before him.
He was of medium stature, and wore a full beard.
His clothing, which was like that worn by porters about the wharves and railway stations, was torn to fragments, and soiled with dust and wine and blood.
This certainly was the murderer. The expression of his face was terrible. A mad fury blazed in his eyes, and a convulsive sneer distorted his features. In his neck and on his cheek were two wounds that were bleeding profusely.
In his right hand, covered with a handkerchief, he held a pistol, which he aimed at the intruders.
"Surrender!" cried Gevrol.
The man's lips moved, but in spite of a visible effort he could not articulate a syllable.
"Don't do any mischief," continued the inspector, "we are in force, you cannot escape; so lay down your arms."
"I am innocent," exclaimed the man, in a hoarse, strained voice.
"Naturally, but we do not see it."
"I have been attacked; ask that old woman. I defended myself; I have killed—I had a right to do so; it was in self-defence!"
The gesture with which he enforced these words was so menacing that one of the policemen drew Gevrol violently to one side, saying, as he did so:
"Take care, General, take care! The revolver has five barrels, and we have heard but two shots."
But the inspector was inaccessible to fear; he freed himself from the grasp of his subordinate and again stepped forward speaking in a still calmer tone.
