"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.

"Monsieur le Préfet, I would remind you that Inspector Vérot's
revelations may save the lives of two persons who are doomed to die
to-night. Every minute lost is irreparable."