"Nothing of the sort!... I arrive from London. I arrested Vinson
yesterday evening at Calais!"

Fandor laughed: he could have roared with laughter.

"My dear Juve," said he, "I should have to talk to you for two mortal
hours before you would understand a word of this business!"

Fandor turned to the thunderstruck Dumoulin, and said in a voice of
the most exquisite politeness:

"Commandant, I must state once for all that I am not Corporal
Vinson!... I am a journalist, whom you perhaps know by name: Jerome
Fandor, on the staff of _La Capitale_.... If you see me in this
uniform, this disguise, that relates to a series of events, details of
which I will give you with pleasure, as soon as I have reduced my own
ideas to order.... As things stand, I am fortunate in meeting my
friend Juve, who, if you desire it, will confirm the truth of my
statement."

Dumoulin, more and more nonplussed, started in turn at the detective,
at the journalist, at his reporter.... With face red as a boiled
lobster, he turned to Lieutenant Servin....

When this farcical scene began, Servin had gone into his own office,
and had given his secretary an order. The secretary had just returned.
The lieutenant, having recorded the answer brought him, had just that
moment returned to the commandant's office.

Lieutenant Servin looked upset.

"Commandant!" he gasped out.

He turned to our detective.

"Monsieur Juve!"

He continued staring first at one man, then at the other.

"An incredible thing has happened!... I have just heard of it!... I
had given the order to have Corporal Vinson brought here
immediately--the real Corporal Vinson--he whom Monsieur Juve arrested
under the name of Butler: well, Commandant, it appears that on
entering his cell they found him--dead!"

"What is that you say?" asked Dumoulin and Juve together.

"I say that he is dead," repeated the lieutenant.

"But how?" questioned Juve.

The lieutenant made a sign to the sergeant in charge.

"Go for the medical officer."

Some minutes passed in a silence that hummed with questions.

A young assistant surgeon appeared.

"Kindly explain what is wrong, Monsieur!" commanded Dumoulin.

The surgeon spoke.

"My commandant sent for me, about an hour ago. I was to attend to a
prisoner who had fainted. This man, when crossing the rue du
Cherche-Midi, had suddenly lost consciousness. His warders could not
revive him. They carried him to his cell. They laid him on his