"Let me go in," she insisted.
She pushed them on one side and hammered at the door. They could hear voices inside. In a moment it was opened. It was the Commissioner of the Police who stood there—tall, severe, official.
"Madame?" he exclaimed.
"I am his wife!" she cried. "Let me in—let me in at once!"
She forced her way into the room. Something was lying on the bed, covered with a sheet. She looked at it and shrieked.
"Madame," the Commissioner begged, "pray compose yourself. A tragedy has happened in this room—but we are not sure. Can you be brave, madame?"
"I can," she answered. "Of what are you not sure?"
The Commissioner turned down the sheet a few inches. A man's face was visible, a ghastly sight. She looked at it and shrieked hysterically.
"Is that your husband, madame?" the Commissioner asked quickly.
"Thank God, no!" she cried. "You are sure this is the man?" she went on, her voice shaking with fierce excitement. "There is no one else—hurt? No one else stabbed? This is the man they told me was my husband?"