"You had been here exactly three minutes," replied the Commissary of
Police.

"As much as that? I should have thought less. We had to greet each
other, after having been parted for many months; and still, in the three
minutes, you believe that we had time to concoct a plot of some sort,
and to find some safe corner--all the while in semi-darkness--for the
hiding of a thing important to the police--a bomb, perhaps? You must
think us very clever."

"I know that you are very clever, Mademoiselle."

"Perhaps I ought to thank you for the compliment," she answered,
allowing anger to warm her voice at last; "but this is almost beyond a
joke. A woman comes to the rooms of a friend. Both of them are so placed
that they prefer her call not to be talked about. For that reason, and
for the woman's sake, the friend chooses to take a name that isn't
his--as he has a right to do. Yet, just because that woman happens
unfortunately to be well-known--her face and name being public
property--she is followed, she is spied upon, humiliated, and all, no
doubt, on account of some silly mistake, or malicious false information.
Ah, it is shameful, Monsieur! I wonder the police of Paris can stoop to
such stupidity, such meanness."

"When we have found out that it is a mistake, the police of Paris will
apologise to you, Mademoiselle, through me," said the Commissary; "until
then, I regret if our duty makes us disagreeable to you." Then, turning
to his two gendarmes, he directed them to search the room, beginning
with all possible places in which a paper parcel or large envelope might
be hidden, within ten metres of the spot where Mademoiselle and Monsieur