he routine existence of
the functionaries at the Depot. The warders were coming and going,
talking among themselves, leaning against the doors of the numerous
cells. The chief warder called one of his men:

"There must be no more of this disorder, Nibet!"

The chief warder was furious: he was about to hold forth to his
subordinate, when an inspector approached.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Sergeant, it is Monsieur Jouet. He has a gentleman with him. He has a
permit. Should I allow him to enter?"

"Who? Monsieur Jouet?"

"No, the gentleman accompanying him!"

"Hang it all! Why, yes--if he has a permit!"

The sergeant moved away shrugging his shoulders disgustedly.

"Not pleased with things this morning, the chief isn't," one of the
warders remarked.

"Not likely, after last night's performance!"

"It's he who will catch it hot over this business!" The warder rubbed
his hands, laughing.

Meanwhile, Fandor had appeared at the entrance of the corridor, under
the guidance of a warder. He was thinking of the splendid copy he had
secured: he was hoping that when Fuselier learned that a journalist had
obtained admittance to the Depot, and had seen the corpse of Jacques
Dollon in his cell, that he would not turn vicious: "But after all,"
said he to himself, "Fuselier is not the man to give me the go-by out of
spite."

Fandor walked up and down the hall of the prison. He had informed the
warders that he was waiting for the magistrate. "How strange life is!"
thought he. "To think that once again I should be brought into close
contact with Elizabeth Dollon, and that there is no likelihood of her
recognising me--we were such children when we parted--she especially!
Had she any recollection of the little rascal I was at the time of poor
Madame de Langrune's assassination?" And, closing his eyes, Fandor tried
to call to mind the features of the Jacques Dollon he used to know: it
was useless! The body of Jacques Dollon he would be gazing at in a few
minutes would be that of an unknown person, whose name alone awakened
memories of bygone days....

So to pass the time Fandor continued his marching up and down.

Monsieur Fuselier appeared at the entrance to the Depot, supporting the
unsteady steps of poor Elizabeth Dollon. Fandor quickly drew back into
an obscure corner:

"Better not attract attention to myself just at present," thought
Fandor; "I will wait until the cell door is opened. If Fuselier does
not wish to gi