"Oh! how I suffer."

The police agent, who had cut off the murderer's retreat now approached,
and with a dexterity that an old surgeon might have envied, made an
examination of the gaping wound which the young man had received in the
back of the neck. "It is nothing," declared the police agent, but as
he spoke there was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip. It was
evident that he considered the wound very dangerous, probably mortal.

"It will be nothing," affirmed Gevrol in his turn; "wounds in the head,
when they do not kill at once, are cured in a month."

The wounded man smiled sadly. "I have received my death blow," he
murmured.

"Nonsense!"

"Oh! it is useless to say anything; I feel it, but I do not complain. I
have only received my just deserts."

All the police agents turned toward the murderer on hearing these words,
presuming that he would take advantage of this opportunity to repeat his
protestations of innocence. But their expectations were disappointed; he
did not speak, although he must certainly have heard the words.

"It was that brigand, Lacheneur, who enticed me here," continued the
wounded man, in a voice that was growing fainter.

"Lacheneur?"