character, which affect only my conscience. You have no right to question me about them."
"That is the exact reply which we are constantly receiving at every moment from your accomplice."
"My accomplice?"
"Yes, Mme. Fauville."
"Mme. Fauville!"
Gaston Sauverand had uttered the same cry as when he heard of the death of the engineer; and his stupefaction seemed even greater, combined as it was with an anguish that distorted his features beyond recognition.
"What?… What?… What do you say? Marie!… No, you don't mean it! It's not true!"
M. Desmalions considered it useless to reply, so absurd and childish was this affectation of knowing nothing about the tragedy on the Boulevard Suchet.
Gaston Sauverand, beside himself, with his eyes starting from his head, muttered:
"Is it true? Is Marie the victim of the same mistake as myself? Perhaps they have arrested her? She, she in prison!"
He raised his clenched fists in a threatening manner against all the unknown enemies by whom he was surrounded, against those who were persecuting him, those who had murdered Hippolyte Fauville and delivered Marie Fauville to the police.
Mazeroux and Chief Inspector Ancenis took hold of him roughly. He made a movement of resistance, as though he intended to thrust back his aggressors. But it was only momentary; and he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands:
