voice grew indistinct. She lowered her head and was silent.
Certainly her silence contained no confession, and there was nothing entitling any one to believe that her dejection was other than a consequence of her grief. But yet she seemed so weary as to give the impression that, feeling herself lost, she was giving up the fight. And it was almost a feeling of pity that was entertained for this woman against whom all the circumstances seemed to be conspiring, and who defended herself so badly that her cross-examiner hesitated to press her yet further.
M. Desmalions, in fact, wore an irresolute air, as if the victory had been too easy, and as if he had some scruple about pursuing it.
Mechanically he observed Perenna, who passed him a slip of paper, saying:
"Mme. d'Ersingen's telephone number."
M. Desmalions murmured:
"Yes, true, they may know"
And, taking down the receiver, he asked for number 325.04. He was connected at once and continued:
"Who is that speaking?… The butler? Ah! Is Mme. d'Ersingen at home?… No?… Or Monsieur?… Not he, either?… Never mind, you can tell me what I want to know. I am M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, and I need certain information. At what time did Mme. Fauville come last night?… What do you say?… Are you sure?… At two o'clock in the morning?… Not before?… And she went away?… In ten minutes' time?… Good.… But you're certain you are not mistaken about the time when she
