roux, go and ferret him out—unless this is just some fresh trick on his part. You have your warrant."
Sergeant Mazeroux went up to M. Desmalions. His face was pallid.
"Monsieur le Préfet, did he tell you that we were going to be blown up?"
"He did. He relies on the note which M. Weber found in a volume of Shakespeare. The explosion is to take place to-night."
"At three o'clock in the morning?"
"At three o'clock in the morning—that is to say, in less than a quarter of an hour."
"And do you propose to remain, Monsieur le Préfet?"
"What next, Sergeant? Do you imagine that we are going to obey that gentleman's fancies?"
Mazeroux staggered, hesitated, and then, despite all his natural deference, unable to contain himself, exclaimed:
"Monsieur le Préfet, it's not a fancy. I have worked with Don Luis. I know the man. If he tells you that something is going to happen, it's because he has his reasons."
"Absurd reasons."
"No, no, Monsieur le Préfet," Mazeroux pleaded, growing more and more excited. "I swear that you must listen to him. The house will be blown up—he said so—at three o'clock. We have a few minutes left. Let us go. I entreat you, Monsieur le Préfet."
"In other words, you want us to run away."
"But it's not running away, Monsieur le Préfet. It's a simple precaution. After all, we can't risk You, yourself, Monsieur le Préfet"
"That will do."
