“You may open now,” he said to Maxence.
Maxence obeyed; and a commissary of police, wearing his scarf of office, rushed into the room; whilst his men, not without difficulty, kept back the crowd in the outer office.
The commissary, who was an old hand, and had perhaps been on a hundred expeditions of this kind, had surveyed the scene at a glance. Noticing in the fireplace the carbonized debris, upon which still fluttered an expiring flame,
“That’s the reason, then,” he said, “why you were so long opening the door?”
A sarcastic smile appeared upon the lips of the editor of “The Pilot.”
“Private matters,” he replied; “women’s letters.”
“This will be moral evidence against you, sir.”
“I prefer it to material evidence.”
Without condescending to notice the impertinence, the commissary was casting a suspicious glance on Maxence and M. de Tregars.
“Who are these gentlemen who were closeted with you?” he asked.