"He won't get in," she repeated, listening. "Monsieur Benoit will never let anybody in who makes a racket like that."

"Not even the police?"

"No,--he will not hear them."

"Oh! ho! ho! ho!" roared Jean; "not hear that!"

"I mean he would affect not to know that it was the police."

She went to a window and listened at the shutter. Then, returning to her guest, who was placidly smoking,--

"It is the police, sure."

"I knew it."

"Now, what do you suppose the agents want at this hour?" It was one o'clock by the little bronze timepiece on the mantel.

"Me," said Jean.

"You!" She glanced at him with a smile of incredulity.

"Yes, pet.i.te."

He puffed continuous rings towards the ceiling, wondering whether he had better explain.

Presently came a tap at the door. The girl hastened to answer it, while Jean refilled his pipe thoughtfully. When she came back she was more excited. She whispered,--

"Monsieur Benoit, le concierge, he wants to see you,--he must let them in!"

"Well, let them in!" exclaimed the young man.

He had thought of Madeleine, chiefly, and the effect of his arrest upon her. A hearing must inevitably lead to her exposure, if not to his. But it was useless to endeavor to escape. He felt that he was trapped. Being in that fix, he may as well face the music.

"But he wants to see you personally," said the girl.

Jean went to the door, where the saturnine Benoit stood with his flaring candle. The man cautiously closed the inner vestibule door.

"S-sh! It is a souriciere, monsieur, as I suspected when you came in with that little she-devil! The agents were at your heels. Now, Monsieur Lerouge, do you wish to escape or do you----"

"I intend to remain right here. There is no reason that I should become a fugitive."

"As you please, monsieur," replied the concierge, with an expressive shrug. And the clack of his sabots was soon heard on the stone stair.

"Funny," said Jean, re-entering, "but he takes me for Lerouge. There is some sort of understanding between them. He would have aided me to escape."

"And why not have accepted, monsieur?" asked Mlle. Fouchette.

"I would rather be a prisoner as Jean Marot than escape as Henri Lerouge," replied the young man.

"Anyhow," muttered the girl, "perhaps the police have made the same mistake."

"I'm afraid not," said Jean.

Mlle. Fouchette regarded the young man admiringly from the corner of her eye. He was so calm and resolute. He had resumed the easy-chair and pipe.

Mlle. Fouchette was not able to veil her feelings under this cloak of indifference. Her highly nervous organization was sensibly disturbed.

One might have easily presumed that she was in question instead of Jean Marot. She had hastily cleared the little table and replaced the lamp, when her unwelcome visitors announced themselves. Mlle.

Fouchette promptly confronted them at the door.

"Well, gentlemen?"

"Mademoiselle, pardon. I'm sorry to disturb you, but I am after the body of one M. Lerouge."

"Then why don't you go and get him?" snapped the girl.

"Pardieu! that is precisely why we are here, mon enfant. He----"

"He is not here."

"Come, now, that will not do, mademoiselle. At least he was here a few moments ago.--Where is that dolt Benoit?"

"M. Lerouge is not here, I tell you; never was here in his life!"

"Oh!"

It was M. Benoit, the concierge. His astonishment was undoubtedly genuine; possibly as much at her brazen denial as at his own error in believing her a police decoy.

"Mademoiselle ought to know," he added, in reply to official inquiry.

"Let us see," exclaimed the man, thrusting the girl aside and entering the room. He was followed by two of his men and the concierge. A rear-guard had detained a curious a.s.sortment of half-dressed people on the stairs.

The eyes of the agents fell upon the young man with a pipe simultaneously. Monsieur Benoit saw him also, and flashed an indignant look at the girl. He had concluded that she had found means to conceal her visitor.

"Ah! Monsieur Lerouge," began the sous-brigadier.

"Bah! you fools!" sneered Mlle. Fouchette, "can't you see that it is not Monsieur Lerouge?"

"There! no more lies, mademoiselle. Your name, monsieur?"

"Jean Marot."

"Oh! so it is Jean Marot?" said the officer, mockingly, while he glanced alternately at Mlle. Fouchette, at M. Benoit, and at his men.

"Very well,--I'll take you as Jean Marot, then," he angrily added.

"Nevertheless," said Jean, now amused at police expense, "I am not Lerouge. There is said to be some resemblance between us, that is all."

The face of M. Benoit was that of a positive man suddenly overwhelmed with evidence of his own stupidity. Mlle. Fouchette laughed outright.

The sous-brigadier frowned. One of his men spoke up,--