Silence!" said the fat man with an oath; "one at a time. Quick! what is
the matter?"

"The matter is this, patron," said Fanferlot dejectedly. "I am doomed
to ill luck. You see how it is; this is the only chance I ever had of
working out a beautiful case, and, paf! my criminal must go and fizzle!
A regular case of bankruptcy!"

"Then it is Clameran who--"

"Of course it is. When the rascal saw me this morning, he scampered off
like a hare. You should have seen him run; I thought he would never stop
this side of Ivry: but not at all. On reaching the Boulevard des Ecoles,
a sudden idea seemed to strike him, and he made a bee-line for his
hotel; I suppose, to get his pile of money. Directly he gets here, what
does he see? these three friends of mine. The sight of these gentlemen
had the effect of a sunstroke upon him; he went raving mad on the spot.
The idea of serving me such a low trick at the very moment I was sure of
success!"

"Where is he now?"

"At the prefecture, I suppose. Some policemen handcuffed him, and drove
off with him in a cab."

"Come with me."

M. Verduret and Fanferlot found Clameran in one of the private cells
reserved for dangerous prisoners.

He had on a strait-jacket, and was struggling violently against three
men, who were striving to hold him, while a physician tried to force him
to swallow a potion.

"Help!" he shrieked; "help, for God's sake! Do you not see my brother
coming after me? Look! he wants to poison me!"

M. Verduret took the physician aside, and questioned him about the
maniac.

"The wretched man is in a hopeless state," replied the doctor; "this
species of insanity is incurable. He thinks someone is trying to poison
him, and nothing will persuade him to eat or drink anything; and, as
it is impossible to force anything down his throat, he will die of
starvation, after having suffered all the tortures of poison."

M. Verduret, with a shudder, turned to leave the prefecture, saying to
Fanferlot:

"Mme. Fauvel is saved, and by the interposition of God, who has himself
punished Clameran!"

"That don't help me in the least," grumbled Fanferlot. "The idea of all
my trouble and labor ending in this flat, quiet way! I seem to be born
for ill-luck!"

"Don't take your blighted hopes of glory so much to heart," replied
M. Verduret. "It is a melancholy fact for you that _File No. 113_ will
never leave the record-office; but you must bear your disappointment
gracefully and he