“No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. Monsieur le Procureur Général has not left his carriage. He is only passing through Ambrumésy and begs you to be good enough to go down to him at the gate. He only has a word to say to you.”
“That’s curious,” muttered M. Filleul. “However—we shall see. Excuse me, Beautrelet, I shan’t be long.”
He went away. His footsteps sounded outside. Then the clerk closed the door, turned the key and put it in his pocket.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Beautrelet, greatly surprised. “What are you locking us in for?”
“We shall be able to talk so much better,” retorted Brédoux.
Beautrelet rushed toward another door, which led to the next room. He had understood: the accomplice was Brédoux, the clerk of the examining magistrate himself. Brédoux grinned:
“Don’t hurt your fingers, my young friend. I have the key of that door, too.”
“There’s the window!” cried Beautrelet.
“Too late,” said Brédoux, planting himself in front of the casement, revolver in hand.
Every chance of retreat was cut off. There was nothing more for Isidore to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy who was revealing himself with such brutal daring. He crossed his arms.