now, at the eleventh hour, that the Italian had become inculpated,
and the question of his possible anxiety to escape had never been
considered.

"He was so artful," went on Block in further extenuation of his
offence. "He left everything behind. His overcoat, stick, this
book--his own private memorandum-book seemingly--"

"Book? Hand it me," said the Chief, and when it came into his
hands he began to turn over the leaves hurriedly.

It was a small brass-bound note-book or diary, and was full of
close writing in pencil.

"I do not understand, not more than a word here and there. It is
no doubt Italian. Do you know that language, M. le Juge?"

"Not perfectly, but I can read it. Allow me."

He also turned over the pages, pausing to read a passage here and
there, and nodding his head from time to time, evidently struck
with the importance of the matter recorded.

Meanwhile, M. Floçon continued an angry conversation with his
offending subordinate.

"You will have to find him, Block, and that speedily, within
twenty-four hours,--to-day, indeed,--or I will break you like a
stick, and send you into the gutter. Of course, such a consummate
ass as you have proved yourself would not think of searching the