The prisoner had not uttered a word, but still wore a thoughtful look, as though trying to understand the inexplicable events of the last few minutes. Nevertheless, when he realized that the newcomer was none other than the Prefect of Police, he raised his head and looked at M. Desmalions, who asked him:
"It is unnecessary to tell you the cause of your arrest, I presume?"
He replied, in a deferential tone:
"Excuse me, Monsieur le Préfet, but I must ask you, on the contrary, to inform me. I have not the least idea of the reason. Your detectives have made a grave mistake which a word, no doubt, will be enough to set right. That word I wish for, I insist upon"
The Prefect shrugged his shoulders and said:
"You are suspected of taking part in the murder of Fauville, the civil engineer, and his son Edmond."
"Is Hippolyte dead?"
The cry was spontaneous, almost unconscious; a bewildered cry of dismay from a man moved to the depths of his being. And his dismay was supremely strange, his question, trying to make them believe in his ignorance, supremely unexpected.
"Is Hippolyte dead?"
He repeated the question in a hoarse voice, trembling all over as he spoke.
"Is Hippolyte dead? What are you saying? Is it possible that he can be dead? And how? Murdered? Edmond, too?"
The Prefect once more shrugged his shoulders.
"The mere fact of your calling M. Fauville by his Christian name shows that you knew him intimately.
