as a flattering compliment. Was it addressed only to Don Luis
Perenna? And had Lupin, the terrible, undaunted Lupin, no right to claim
his share? Was it possible to believe that M. Desmalions, in his heart of
hearts, did not admit the identity of the two persons?

Nothing in the Prefect's attitude gave any clue to his secret thoughts.
He was suggesting to Don Luis Perenna one of those compacts which the
police are often obliged to conclude in order to gain their ends. The
compact was concluded, and no more was said upon the subject.

"Do you want any particulars of me?" asked the Prefect of Police.

"Yes, Monsieur le Prefet. The papers spoke of a notebook found in poor
Inspector Verot's pocket. Did the notebook contain a clue of any kind?"

"No. Personal notes, lists of disbursements, that's all. Wait, I was
forgetting, there was a photograph of a woman, about which I have not yet
been able to obtain the least information. Besides, I don't suppose that
it bears upon the case and I have not sent it to the newspapers. Look,
here it is."

Perenna took the photograph which the Prefect handed him and gave a start
that did not escape M. Desmalions's eye.

"Do you know the lady?"

"No. No, Monsieur le Prefet. I thought I did; but no, there's merely a
resemblance--a family likeness, which I will verify if you can leave the
photograph with me till this evening."

"Till this evening, yes. When you have done with it, give it back to
Sergeant Mazeroux, whom I will order to work in concert with you in
everything that relates to the Mornington case."

The interview was now over. The Prefect went away. Don Luis saw him to
the door. As M. Desmalions was about to go down the steps, he turned and
said simply:

"You saved my life this morning. But for you, that scoundrel Sauverand--"

"Oh, Monsieur le Prefet!" said Don Luis, modestly protesting.

"Yes, I know, you are in the habit of doing that sort of thing. All the
same, you must accept my thanks."

And the Prefect of Police made a bow such as he would really have made to
Don Luis Perenna, the Spanish noble, the hero of the Foreign Legion. As
for Weber, he put his two hands in his pockets, walked past with the look
of a muzzled mastiff, and gave his enemy a glance of fierce hatred.

"By Jupiter!" thought Don Luis. "There's a fellow who won't miss me when
he gets the chance to shoot!"

Looking through a window, he saw M. Desmalions's motor car drive off. The
detectives f