chin in his thin black overcoat. He had one of those faces that impress
us disagreeably--an odiously turned-up nose, thin lips, and little,
restless black eyes.

Fanferlot, who had been on the police force for five years, burned to
distinguish himself, to make for himself a name. He was ambitious. Alas!
he was unsuccessful, lacking opportunity--or genius.

Already, before the commissary spoke to him, he had ferreted everywhere;
studied the doors, sounded the partitions, examined the wicket, and
stirred up the ashes in the fireplace.

"I cannot imagine," said he, "how a stranger could have effected an
entrance here."

He walked around the office.

"Is this door closed at night?" he inquired.

"It is always locked."

"And who keeps the key?"

"The office-boy, to whom I always give it in charge before leaving the
bank," said Prosper.

"This boy," said M. Fauvel, "sleeps in the outer room on a
sofa-bedstead, which he unfolds at night, and folds up in the morning."

"Is he here now?" inquired the commissary.