CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE AUTOPSY.
In a house opposite the Palais de Justice, two men were talking together in an attic room. One of these men was seated, the other was standing. The one who was seated, robust and vigorous, was anxiously questioning a person, who answered slowly and coldly.
"Then Doctor, you are sure?"
"Have no uneasiness. I know what I am doing."
"You understand that it is for to-morrow, and nothing can be done during the night. It means, in short, forty hours."
"When I accepted the terrible responsibility which you proposed to me, I weighed every detail. And once more I bid you have entire confidence in me and in science, and in the devotion of those who are brothers in a common cause."
"Forgive me!" repeated the other. "Forgive my anxiety and apparent distrust."
"I am at your disposal at all times and seasons; if the important moment be advanced or retarded, be sure that I shall be in readiness."
The two men shook hands cordially, and the Doctor went out. The other threw himself on a chair, and covering his face with his huge hands, wept bitterly—wept like a child, did this poor Iron Jaws. Suddenly he started up, and cried: