"Shut your mouth, rascal!" yelled the guard, rapping the cell door with his sword bayonet.
A few minutes later the van was stopped, the rear door opened, and one by one the prisoners, bloody, torn, and bedraggled, were handed out and hustled not very gently by two police agents through a heavily grilled doorway into a room already crowded with victims of law and order. All of these were yet to be called before the commissaire and interrogated in turn, and by him either held or discharged. A good many were both hatless and coatless, and altogether they certainly bore a riotous and suspicious look.
In the crowd near the desk where they were led to be registered Jean met his old friend Villeroy.
"Oho!" exclaimed the latter, laughingly.
"Oh, yes; it is I, my friend."
"Pinched this time, hein?"
"So it seems."
"And in what company?"
"Yours, I suppose," retorted Jean.
"Good company!" said Villeroy. "Kill any—any agents?"