"Well, citizen," replied Jeannette blandly, "since you took poor Paul
Mole into custody."

"What do you mean?" Chauvelin riposted. "What had Paul Mole to do with
the child and the ring?"

"Only this, citizen, that he was to have gone to Pantin last night
instead of me. And thankful I was not to have to go. Citizen Marat gave
the ring to Mole, I suppose. I know he intended to give it to him. He
spoke to me about it just before that execrable woman came and murdered
him. Anyway, the ring has gone and Mole too. So I imagine that Mole has
the ring and--"

"That's enough!" Chauvelin broke in roughly. "You can go!"

"But, citizen--"

"You can go, I said," he reiterated sharply. "The matter of the child
and the Leridans and the ring no longer concerns you. You understand?"

"Y--y--yes, citizen," murmured Jeannette, vaguely terrified.

And of a truth the change in citizen Chauvelin's demeanour was enough to
scare any timid creature. Not that he raved or ranted or screamed. Those
were not his ways. He still sat beside his desk as he had done before,
and his slender hand, so like the talons of a vulture, was clenched upon
the arm of his chair. But there was such a look of inward fury and of
triumph in his pale, deep-set eyes, such lines of cruelty around his
thin, closed lips, that Jeannette Marechal, even with the picture before