M. de Maufil was exceedingly nervous.

"As soon as you went back to headquarters," he declared to Juve, some moments after that officer had been shown into his private room, "I continued the search with redoubled efforts. Neither the ward-nurses, in whom I place complete confidence, nor the heads of my staff, whom I have known for ever so long, passed the doors of the hospital. In fact, I took every precaution and obeyed your instructions to the letter—yet all in vain."

"You found nothing?"

"Nothing. Not only did we not discover the criminal, but we did not come upon any trace of him."

"That's strange.".

"It is maddening. It would seem that from the instant the man fired those two shots in the woman's ward in Patel's department he vanished, unaccountably. Your notion of examining the hands of all those in the hospital was an excellent one, but nothing came of it.

"He must have known the snare we were preparing for him and did not turn up at the hospital exit, so we must naturally conclude he is still inside the gates, hidden in some remote corner, or underground. However, the first thing to do is to protect the girl, Josephine. By the by, she saw nothing, I suppose?"

"She declares she did not see Loupart come in, but she asserts with a sort of perverse pride that it was certainly Loupart who fired at her because he had threatened to do so."

A knock at the door was followed by the timid entrance of the doorkeeper.

"Is that you, Charles? Come in," cried the director. "What do you want?"

"It's about the signature, sir. There is blood on my book."

In a moment Juve leaped from his chair and tore the register out of the porter's hands.

"Blood!"

Feverishly he turned the pages until he came to the writing. Without waiting for de Maufil's permission, he dismissed the porter.

"Very good, I'll see you presently."

Scarcely had the door shut, when Juve pointed to the page. "Look! Doctor Chaleck's signature! And just below it this mark of blood! What do you say to that, sir?"

"But it's sheer madness. Chaleck cannot be guilty!"

"Why not?"

"Because he is known to me. He was recommended to me seven months ago by an old comrade of mine. Chaleck is a man of brains, a foreign physician, a Belgian. He comes here specially to study intermittent fevers. M. Juve, I tell you he has nothing whatever to do with this affair." Juve picked up his hat and stick. He was restless and uneasy; the directors' outburst had not greatly impressed him.

"Doctor Chaleck could not explain how his finger came to be hurt and he did not inform us of the fact."

"A mere coincidence."

"Possibly, but it is a terrible coincidence for that man," replied Juve.

On leaving the director's room, the distinguished detective could not refrain from rubbing his hands. "This time I have him!" he muttered. He went rapidly down the stairs, crossed the great courtyard of the hospital, and proceeded to knock at the porter's lodge.

"Tell me, my friend, precisely how Doctor Chaleck's leaving the hospital came about?"

The worthy man with much detail, for he now felt very proud of having played a part in the affair, related how Doctor Chaleck came to the gate, sent him after a cab while signing his name, then made off, after having, no doubt by an oversight, closed the register.

"Very good! Thank you," was Juve's comment, bestowing a liberal tip on the man.

This time he was leaving LÂriboisiÈre for good.

"Very characteristic, that piece of impudence," he reflected; "very like Doctor Chaleck that device of shutting the register he had just stained with blood in order to give himself time to make off!" On reaching the Boulevard Magenta he hailed a cab.

"Rue Montmartre. Stop at the Capital office. You know it?"

A few minutes later Juve was shown into Fandor's office. But the detective no longer wore a smiling face, and his air of abstraction did not escape his friend.

"Anything fresh?" inquired Fandor.

"Much that is fresh! That's why I came here to see you."

The journalist smiled. "Thanks, Juve. It is, indeed, owing to you that the Capital is the best posted sheet in town."

Then the detective proceeded to tell the reporter the startling discovery he had just made at LÂriboisiÈre. He concluded:

"There, I suppose you can turn that into a thrilling story, eh?"

"I certainly can."

"The arrest is now scarcely more than a matter of time."

"And how are you going to set about it?"

"I don't quite know. Well, good-bye."

Fandor let the officer reach the door of the office, then called him back.

"Juve!"

"Fandor!"

"You are hiding something from me."

"I? Nonsense."

"Yes," persisted Fandor. "You are concealing something. Don't deny it. I know you too well, my friend, to be content with your reticences."

"My reticences?"

"You didn't come here merely to give me copy."

"Why——"

"No. You had some idea in coming to look me up and then you changed your mind. Why?"

"I assure you you are mistaken."

Fandor rose.

"All right, if you won't tell me, I shall follow you." At the journalist's announcement Juve shrugged his shoulders.

"That's what I feared. But it's absurd to be always dragging you into risky affairs."

"Where are we going?" asked Fandor briefly, as he lit a cigarette.

"We are going to-night to Doctor Chaleck's. If he's there we will force a confession from him; if he's not there, we will ransack his house for clues," and Juve added, smiling, "like good burglars. I have a whole bunch of false keys. We shall be able to get into Doctor Chaleck's without ringing his bell. Here's a snapshot I took of Josephine at the hospital." And throwing the proof on Fandor's desk, he said smilingly:

"The young woman's not bad looking, is she?"