Fandor's real attitude was
both suppliant and persuasive, and that Elizabeth Dollon's was one of
overwhelming surprise.

Monsieur Fuselier, carried away by the journalist's startling and
extraordinary statements, did not perceive this. Suddenly, he saw in
Jerome Fandor the denunciator, and in Elizabeth Dollon, the accomplice
unmasked. Nevertheless, he said quietly:

"Monsieur Fandor, you have just uttered words of such gravity that you
are bound to confirm them by indisputable evidence. Do you mean to
persist on these lines?"

Fandor looked away from the stupefied Elizabeth and her questioning
glance: he answered the magistrate at once.

"The proof of what I advance, you will find by searching Mademoiselle
Dollon's room.... I would rather not say more than that...."

"Allow me to state, monsieur, that I cannot arrange for such an
investigation until to-morrow morning!"

Then, addressing the astounded Madame Bourrat, the two bankers, and the
manservant, Jules.

"Madame, messieurs, will you be kind enough to withdraw? Madame, I
advise you, under pain of the most serious consequences, not to allow
anyone whatever to enter your premises, nor go into Mademoiselle
Dollon's room, before this matter has been fully sifted by the legal
authorities. Be good enough to wait in the passage--all of you!"

Having witnessed their exit, the magistrate walked up to Fandor, and
looking him straight in the eyes said:

"Well!... Out with it!"

"Well," replied the journalist, "if you institute a search in the place
I have indicated, you will find, in the chest of drawers, under a pile
of Mademoiselle Dollon's personal linen a piece of soap wrapped up in a
cambric handkerchief. Take this soap to Monsieur Bertillon's department,
and after the scientific tests have been applied to it, you will be able
to say that it bears distinct impressions of Dollon's hand!"

"Dollon's?"

The magistrate gasped.

Elizabeth Dollon had fallen back into the arm-chair, from which she had
risen all trembling. Her tears had ceased. She stared at the two men
with wide open, terrified eyes. All the time, the clerk in spectacles
wrote steadily on at his table, noting down the details of the scenes he
was witnessing.

There was a palpitating silence.

Monsieur Fuselier had returned to his writing table.

Jerome Fandor seemed to have recovered his composure, an ironic smile
curved his lips beneath his small moustache, whilst his hand sought that
of