minds. Was the abominable murderer about to appear before them?
"Silence!" said the Prefect, stopping his walk.
Some one had crossed the anteroom.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in!"
The office messenger entered, carrying a card-tray. On the tray was a letter; and in addition there was one of those printed slips on which callers write their name and the object of their visit.
M. Desmalions hastened toward the messenger. He hesitated a moment before taking up the slip. He was very pale. Then he glanced at it quickly.
"Oh!" he said, with a start.
He looked toward Don Luis, reflected, and then, taking the letter, he said to the messenger:
"Is the bearer outside?"
"In the anteroom, Monsieur le Préfet."
"Show the person in when I ring."
The messenger left the room.
M. Desmalions stood in front of his desk, without moving. For the second time Don Luis met his eyes; and a feeling of perturbation came over him. What was happening?
With a sharp movement the Prefect of Police opened the envelope which he held in his hand, unfolded the letter and began to read it.
The others watched his every gesture, watched the least change of expression on his face. Were Perenna's predictions about to be fulfilled? Was a fifth heir putting in his claim?
The moment he had read the first lines, M. Desmalions looked up and, addressing Don Luis, murmured:
