t least plenty of assistants.

At first, by way of getting their hand in, the authorities picked out
inoffensive people--women, teachers, anyone who was little known and
unable to defend himself; and then they turned their attention to
something bigger. It was a good chance for a politician to rid himself
of a dangerous rival, of anyone possessed of secrets or likely to rise
in the future. Above all, according to the old receipts, they took
care to mix accusations, throwing into the same bag vulgar sharpers
and those whose character and mind made them uneasy, so that in all
this mess the blindfolded public did not attempt to distinguish
between an honest man and a scamp. In this way those who were not
sufficiently compromised by their actions found themselves involved in
those of their associates; and if these were lacking, the authorities
stood ready, if necessary, to supply them made to order to fit the
accusation.

When Xavier Thouron first came to see Clerambault how could anyone
know if he was in the Secret Service? He might very well have come of
his own accord; and it was impossible to say what his intentions were,
perhaps he hardly knew himself? In the purlieus of a great city there
are always unscrupulous adventurers rushing about seeking whom they
may devour. They have ravenous appetites, and curiosity to match, and
anything will do to fill up this aching void. They are willing to say
black is white; all is grist that comes to their mill, and they are
capable of throwing you into the water one minute and jumping in to
save you the next. They are not too careful of their skins, but the
animal inside has to be fed and amused. If he stopped making faces and
stuffing for one moment, he might die of boredom and disgust at his
own vacancy; but he is too clever for that, he will not stop to think
until he dies--splendidly, on his feet, like the Roman Emperor.

No one could have told Thouron's real object when he went for the
first time to Clerambault's house. As usual he was very busy, excited
and on the scent of he knew not what. He was one of those great
journalists--they are rare in the profession--who, without taking the
trouble to read a thing, can give you a vivid, brilliant account of
it, which often, by a miracle, proves to be fairly just. He said his
little "piece" to Clerambault without too many mistakes, and appeared
to believe it; perhaps he did while the words were on his lips. Why
not? He was a sort