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