"And that he did not go out again?"
"Absolutely sure."
"And your attention was not distracted for a moment?"
"Not for a moment."
"There, Monsieur, you see!" cried the Prefect. "If Inspector Vérot were here, we should know it."
"He is here, Monsieur le Préfet."
"What!"
"Excuse my obstinacy, Monsieur le Préfet, but I say that, when some one enters a room and does not go out again, he is still in that room."
"Hiding?" said M. Desmalions, who was growing more and more irritated.
"No, but fainting, ill—dead, perhaps."
"But where, hang it all?"
"Behind that screen."
"There's nothing behind that screen, nothing but a door."
"And that door?"
"Leads to a dressing-room."
"Well, Monsieur le Préfet, Inspector Vérot, tottering, losing his head, imagining himself to be going from your office to your secretary's room, fell into your dressing-room."
M. Desmalions ran to the door, but, at the moment of opening it, shrank back. Was it apprehension, the wish to withdraw himself from the influence of that astonishing man, who gave his orders with such authority and who seemed to command events themselves?
Don Luis stood waiting imperturbably, in a deferential attitude.
"I cannot believe" said M. Desmalions.
