"In any case, Monsieur le Préfet," the solicitor interposed, "I must remind you that one of the clauses of the will stipulates that it shall not be read until forty-eight hours have elapsed. M. Fauville, therefore, must not be informed"
The door was pushed open and a man hustled the messenger aside and rushed in.
"Inspector … Inspector Vérot?" he spluttered. "He's dead, isn't he? I was told"
"Yes, Monsieur, he is dead."
"Too late! I'm too late!" he stammered.
And he sank into a chair, clasping his hands and sobbing:
"Oh, the scoundrels! the scoundrels!"
He was a pale, hollow-cheeked, sickly looking man of about fifty. His head was bald, above a forehead lined with deep wrinkles. A nervous twitching affected his chin and the lobes of his ears. Tears stood in his eyes.
The Prefect asked:
"Whom do you mean, Monsieur? Inspector Vérot's murderers? Are you able to name them, to assist our inquiry?"
Hippolyte Fauville shook his head.
"No, no, it would be useless, for the moment.… My proofs would not be sufficient.… No, really not."
He had already risen from his chair and stood apologizing:
"Monsieur le Préfet, I have disturbed you unnecessarily, but I wanted to know.… I was hoping that Inspector Vérot might have escaped.… His evidence, joined to mine, would have been invaluable. But perhaps he was able to tell you?"
