After Monsieur Fuselier's departure, Fandor rejoined Madame Bourrat on the boulevard. The good woman was very much upset by the dramatic scene she had witnessed. She had sent off her manservant, and was preparing to take the tram back to Auteuil. Fandor asked if he might accompany her, and Madame Bourrat was only too delighted to have a chance of further talk with the journalist, for she had a lively desire to learn all she could about the extraordinary drama in which she found herself involved.

When they arrived at Auteuil, Madame Bourrat had learned nothing definite, for the journalist had given only evasive answers to her questions. Still, one point was obvious: Madame Bourrat considered Monsieur JÉrÔme Fandor as the most amiable man in the world, and she was disposed to help him to the utmost of her powers, in defence of any interests he wished to safeguard....

Madame Bourrat was absolutely set on receiving Monsieur Fandor in her private apartments. She then seized the opportunity to complain of the trouble this affair had brought into her regular and peaceful existence. Certainly, in summer, her boarders were less numerous; their numbers being, in fact, reduced to two or three.

This season there had been fewer than usual; but the accident, or attempted assassination of Mademoiselle Dollon, had undoubtedly brought discredit on the house. An old paralysed gentleman, who had been in residence on the day of the drama, had departed the day after. There was not a single boarder in the house: it was empty.

Having made certain that her manservant, Jules, and her cook, Marianne, had retired to their respective rooms, Madame Bourrat conducted Fandor as far as the door of her dwelling. They had been so interested in their talk, that they had forgotten all about dinner: their experiences of the past few hours had left them with little appetite. It was about nine o'clock; night had fallen: house and garden were wrapped in a mantle of darkness.

"Can you find your way?" asked Madame Bourrat. If she accompanied the journalist to her garden gate she would have to grope back to the house in the dark, and alone! Her nerves were shaken by recent events. She did not wish to venture forth and back in the mysterious gloom of night, even on the familiar path of her garden. What might that darkness not hide! What robbers, what murderers might there not be lurking near!

Fandor laughed.

"Why, of course I can, madame! To find the points of the compass, to cultivate the sense of locality, is part of a journalist's profession."

"Do not forget to draw to behind you—it needs a strong pull—the gate which separates us from the street: once shut, no one can open it from outside."

Fandor, shaking hands with the boarding-house keeper, promised to close the gate. As the sound of his steps on the gravel grew less and less, as the gate fell to with a loud noise, and an absolute silence followed, Madame Bourrat felt sure that her guest had left the garden—had gone away.

But he had done nothing of the sort!

Fandor had shut the gate noiselessly, but he had remained inside the grounds. He stood motionless, holding his breath, wishing neither to be seen nor heard. He remained so for a long twenty minutes. Then, being assured that Madame Bourrat had retired for the night—she had closed her shutters and put out her light—he rubbed his hands, murmuring:

"Now we shall see!"

Stepping gingerly along by the side of the wall, he reached the main building of the boarding-house: luckily, it was empty as far as boarders were concerned. He recognised Elizabeth Dollon's window on the first floor and was glad to see that it was half open. Chance favoured him—there was even a gutter pipe running down the wall and passing close to the window. Providence had favoured him with a fine staircase; there would not be much difficulty in climbing that!

No sooner thought than done! Accustomed as he was to exercise and games, Fandor, agile as a young man in good training can be, squirmed up the pipe as far as Elizabeth's window. He caught hold of the sill, recovered his balance, jerked himself up, and, two seconds after, had landed in the room.

Dared he strike a light! He remembered pretty accurately the position of the various pieces of furniture, but he would like to study the room more in detail. His luck still held, for a ray of moonlight suddenly shone out from behind a cloud. He saw the moon sailing in a clear sky. There would be sufficient light from the moon rays to enable him to pursue his investigations.

It was an essentially modern room; the white walls were painted with ripolin, and were as bare of ornament as a nun's cell. An iron bedstead stood in the middle of the room: a wardrobe, with a mirror panel in front, and locked, occupied one of the corners; behind a folding screen was a toilette table, a Louis XV bureau, two chairs, an arm-chair: that was all.

After making this rapid inventory, Fandor considered:

"The situation is growing complicated," said he to himself. "I am quite persuaded that this room will shortly receive a visit from some individuals who will not court recognition—their interests are all against that—and they certainly will not be anxious to meet me here! These individuals assuredly know, at this minute, that the examining magistrate is going to make a thorough investigation here to-morrow morning.... How do they know it? It's very simple. The prime mover in the attempted murder, or one of his accomplices, was assuredly among the witnesses this afternoon. Is it the amiable Madame Bourrat? Is it that doltish Jules, who looks an absolute fool, but may be masking his game! Suppose the serious Barbey pops up? Or the elegant Nanteuil? But I do not think so—they are rather victims than attackers—everything leads me to that opinion. But—all this does not tell me whether the place has already been visited or not!"

Fandor unlocked the drawer, searched for the piece of soap under the pile of Elizabeth's linen, and had the extreme satisfaction of finding the soap had not been moved.

"Good! I am here first! Ah, we shall see our men presently! Which, and how many?"

Fandor seated himself and let his imagination work. He tried to picture the faces of the mysterious individuals he was determined to track down—but, so far, in vain!... Then with strange, uncanny persistence, one face rose again and again before his mental vision, clear, vital—the face of the enigmatic Thomery, with his silver white hair, his red face, his light blue eyes, that Yankee head of his, well set on his robust torso....

"Thomery!" cried Fandor almost aloud. "The fact is, everything leads me to think ... but don't let us anticipate! Concealment is the next item on the programme!"

Fandor realised that to hide under the bed was impossible: he would be discovered immediately.... The screen was no better!... There was Elizabeth's trunk!... Why, it was a kind of monument in wicker work! The very thing! It was quite big enough to hold him—it was one of those enormous trunks beloved of women!... To hide in it would be an excellent trick—a real joke! Let me burrow in there, and see the stupefaction of these estimable characters when they open it to rummage about among Elizabeth's belongings and find themselves face to face with me! They will see besides my sympathetic countenance the stern mouth of my revolver!... Let us see whether it is a possible hiding place!

Fandor raised the cover and lifted out a top compartment, in which were scattered, among objects of feminine apparel, papers, books, and all sorts of things which had evidently belonged to the unfortunate painter. The distracted Elizabeth, in the hurry of departure from rue Norvins, must have thrust them in pell-mell. The lower division of the trunk was empty.

"Another bit of luck!" thought Fandor. "Now to sample my little hide-hole!"

Fandor found he could get into a fairly comfortable position. Then he calculated, that with the compartment back in its place and the cover open, all he had to do to close it was to shake the trunk transversely. He could certainly remain inside for several hours without intolerable discomfort.

Raising the cover, Fandor slipped out.

The interminable hours crawled by. To smoke was out of the question. Fandor's pride in his exploit was sinking to zero: was he passing a wretched night to no purpose? A violent ring sounded. Someone was ringing at the garden gate—ringing loudly, insistently—an imperative summons!

Instantly Fandor was on the alert. Useless to slip to the window and peer cautiously out, for Elizabeth's window did not face the gate: even by leaning out he could not catch any glimpse of any visitors, either coming to the house or passing along towards Madame Bourrat's apartments in the annex.... Besides, Fandor feared to make a noise, and the polished boards of the floor cracked and creaked at the least movement!

"The one thing for me to do," thought he, "is to creep back into my retreat and wait. Now who can it be at this time of night?"

Fandor's curiosity was rapidly satisfied—after a fashion! The call of the bell had been answered by noises and hurried footsteps, whisperings, an outburst of voices, then silence.... A few minutes after, Fandor clearly heard some persons entering the ground floor of the house.

He listened intently: he could hear his own heartbeats.

Then a voice said:

"In Heaven's name! Is it possible? Why do you come to upset people at this time of night? As if we had not had enough to put up with during the day! It is a dreadful business! There's no doubt about it! Are we never to be left in peace?"

"Why, it's Madame Bourrat's voice!" said Fandor. "Poor woman! What's up?" He listened. Someone said:

"The law is the law, madame, and we are it's humble executors. As the examining judge has ordered me to make an investigating distraint, we are compelled to carry out his instructions to the letter. Be good enough to tell your servant to lead us to the actual spot where the crime was attempted."

"Now what is all this?" asked Fandor. "And from whence comes this police inspector? It only wanted that! He won't know what to make of it when I tell him who I am—and how am I to explain my presence here? Anyhow, wait, and see what happens!"

"Someone was coming upstairs—more than one!"

"This way, messieurs!" said a hoarse voice. "The room the young lady occupied is at the end of this passage!"

"This time I recognise my fine fellow!" thought Fandor. "It is that imbecile of a Jules. But what a triumphant tone! And how different his voice sounds to what it did, this afternoon, at the examination!"

Then Fandor all but jumped from his hiding place.

"Oh! What an egregious fool I am! Why, there is not a police inspector in France who would come at this hour to carry out an investigation—and a distraint to boot! What the devil does it mean? Can they be the fine fellows I am lying in wait to meet?"

The dubious individuals who had roused the house at such an unholy hour entered the room. Someone turned on the electric light.

Though Fandor could obtain a sufficient supply of air through the openings in the wickerwork, he could not see what was going on: he could only listen with all his ears.

Madame Bourrat accompanied her strange visitors.

"It is here," she exclaimed, "that the journalist, JÉrÔme Fandor, found my boarder stretched out on the floor.... You see, in this corner, is the gas stove with its tubing! They have forgotten to refix it to the pipe; but there is no danger, the tap is turned off and so is the meter."

The personage who had given out that he was a police inspector, whose voice was probably an assumed one, replied only by monosyllables. Fandor did not recognise his voice. But there was another speaker, who also had very little to say for himself; and Fandor thought he recognised certain tones as belonging to a man who had been much in his thoughts of late.

"Thomery!" thought he. "Is it Thomery?"

But he only knew the sugar refiner by sight, and had heard him speak but once or twice at the ball: that was not enough to go on, for Fandor had not paid special attention to the distinguishing tone and quality of his host's voice. Nevertheless, he could not get out of his head the idea that the celebrated sugar refiner, honoured by all Paris, esteemed by everybody, was standing only a step or two away from him now in this house of strange happenings, and under very peculiar circumstances. "Was he a burglar—an assassin? One of a nefarious band?"

For Fandor was now convinced that these were not police emissaries bearing a legal mandate to search and distrain: no, they were robbers, criminals! He was preparing to rise from his hiding place and appear before the bandits: he would fire a few shots and make the deuce of a row and rouse the neighbourhood. He would also save poor Madame Bourrat, who was certainly not their accomplice. Just then he heard the pretended police inspector say:

"Will you provide us with writing materials, madame? We must write an official report."

"Why, certainly, monsieur," replied Madame Bourrat. "I will go downstairs and get what you require."

Fandor heard her leave the room. No sooner had she gone than a hurried conversation began in low tones. Clearly Jules was guilty, for the pretended police inspector asked:

"No one this evening? Nothing happened?"

"No," replied Jules in a servile tone. "The journalist brought the mistress back and then went off at nine o'clock...."

"No news of Alfred?" asked the voice.

The third person answered:

"Why, no. You know very well he is always at the DÉpÔt."

"Let us set to work!" said voice number one.

Fandor felt that the decisive moment had arrived: someone opened the cover of the trunk and feverish hands were turning over the confused mass of objects in the top compartment.

"Didn't you find anything?" asked the voice of Jules.

"No, no, monsieur! I searched everywhere; but as I do not read easily, it's difficult for me...."

"Imbecile!" murmured the voice.

"Ah!" said Fandor to himself. "This fellow pleases me! He has the same opinion of this dolt of a Jules as I have!"

Revolver in hand, Fandor was on the alert. The moment they lifted up the compartment out he would jump. Just then, Madame Bourrat could be heard approaching.

"Confound it! We shall not have time to go through everything!" muttered a voice. The trunk cover was hastily closed.

Fandor heard Madame Bourrat enter the room with slow, heavy step.

"Here are ink and paper, messieurs!" she said.

Then the pretended police inspector made a statement that startled the concealed Fandor.

"Madame, we have no time, nor are we able to make a minute investigation now. Besides, with one exception, there does not seem to be anything suspicious about the room; but here is a trunk which contains papers of great importance. We are going to take it to the police station."

"As you please," replied Madame Bourrat. "I ask only one thing and that is to be left in peace. I do not want to hear anything more about this abominable affair!"

A rapid turn of the key given to each of the locks and Fandor knew that he was now a prisoner! Brave as he was, he felt a rush of blood to his heart and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

"Dash it all! I am in an awful position! Impossible to move! If these brutes suspected they had me tight in here they would pitch me into the river as sure as Fate! Then good-bye to La Capitale!"

Then, before Fandor's mental vision rose a sweet consoling figure, the figure of the girl for whom he was braving danger, for love of whom—he certainly did love her—he had placed himself in such a serious position.... Then all that was optimistic in his nature—and that was much—rose to the surface, and declared the dilemma was not as serious as it seemed.... How could the bandits know of his presence in the trunk? They never would think JÉrÔme Fandor so stupid as to shut himself up in the trap!

"Jules and I might shake hands as equals in folly!" concluded Fandor.... Just then the trunk began to move. They were trying to lift it. Whilst trying to preserve an unstable equilibrium, he said to himself in a satisfied way:

"And just to think now that they have not rummaged in the chest of drawers, nor have they seized the tell-tale piece of soap!... It's true that Fuselier alone knows of its being there—I was careful not to tell anyone else.... But, where the deuce are they going? It's the stairs, of course! It might be a rough precipice by the shaking up they're giving me!"