2.

I flatter myself that I conducted the business with remarkable skill.
At precisely ten minutes to eleven I rang at the Chancellerie of the
Ministry for Foreign Affairs. I was dressed as a respectable
commissionnaire, and I carried a letter and a small parcel addressed
to M. de Marsan. "First floor," said the concierge curtly, as soon as
he had glanced at the superscription on the letter. "Door faces top of
the service stairs."

I mounted and took my stand some ten steps below the landing, keeping
the door of M. de Marsan's room well in sight. Just as the bells of
Notre Dame boomed the hour I heard what sounded like a furious
altercation somewhere in the corridor just above me. There was much
shouting, then one or two cries of "Murder!" followed by others of
"What is it?" and "What in the name of ----- is all this infernal row
about?" Doors were opened and banged, there was a general running and
rushing along that corridor, and the next minute the door in front of
me was opened also, and a young man came out, pen in hand, and
shouting just like everybody else:

"What the ------ is all this infernal row about?"

"Murder, help!" came from the distant end of the corridor, and M. de
Marsan--undoubtedly it was he--did what any other young man under the
like circumstances would have done: he ran to see what was happening
and to lend a hand in it, if need be. I saw his slim figure
disappearing down the corridor at the very moment that I slipped into
his room. One glance upon the desk sufficed: there lay the large
official-looking document, with the royal signature affixed thereto,