uselier asked:

"Look here, chief, was this man dead, or was he not?"

Elizabeth Dollon was repeating:

"He lives! He lives!" and laughing wildly.

The warder raised his hand as though taking a solemn oath:

"As to being dead, he was dead right enough!... The doctor will tell you
so, too: also my colleague, Favril, who helped me to lay out the body on
the bed."

"But how can a dead body get away from here? If he _was_ dead, he could
not have escaped!" said the magistrate.

"It is witchcraft!" declared the warder, with a shrug.

Fuselier flew into a rage:

"Had you not better confess that you and your colleagues did not keep
proper watch and ward!... The investigation will show on whose shoulders
the responsibility rests."

"But, sakes alive, monsieur!" expostulated the warder: "There aren't
only two of us who have seen him dead!... There are all the hospital
attendants of the Depot as well!... There is the doctor, and there are
my colleagues to be counted in: the truth is, monsieur, some fifty
persons have seen him dead!"

"So you say!" cried the impatient magistrate: "I am going to inform the
Public Prosecutor of what has happened, and at once!"

As he was hurrying away, he spied Jerome Fandor, who had not missed a
single detail of the scene.

"You again!" exclaimed the irate magistrate: "How did you get in here?"

"By permit," replied our journalist.

"Well, you have learned what there is to know, haven't you? Be off,
then! You are one too many here!... Frankly, there is no need for you to
augment the scandal!... Will you, therefore, be kind enough to take
yourself off?" And Fuselier, almost beside himself with rage, raced off
to the Public Prosecutor's office.

After the magistrate's furious attack, Fandor could not possibly linger
in the corridors of the Depot. The warders, too, were pressing their
attentions on him and on Elizabeth Dollon:

"This way, monsieur!... Madame, this way!... Ah, it's a wretched
business!... Here, this way! This way!... Be off, as fast as you can!"

Presently Fandor was descending the grand staircase of the Palais,
steadying the uncertain steps of poor Elizabeth Dollon.

"I implore you to help me!" she cried: "Help me: help us! My brother is
guiltless--I could swear to that!... He must--must be found!... This
hideous nightmare must end!"

"Mademoiselle, I ask nothing better, only ... where to find him?"

"Ah, I have no idea, none!... I implore you, you who must kn