"Mme. d'Ersingen's telephone number."
M. Desmalions murmured:
"Yes, true, they may know—"
And, taking down the receiver, he asked for number 325.04. He was connected at once and continued:
"Who is that speaking?… The butler? Ah! Is Mme. d'Ersingen at home?… No?… Or Monsieur?… Not he, either?… Never mind, you can tell me what I want to know. I am M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, and I need certain information. At what time did Mme. Fauville come last night?… What do you say?… Are you sure?… At two o'clock in the morning?… Not before?… And she went away?… In ten minutes time?… Good … But you're certain you are not mistaken about the time when she arrived? I must know this positively: it is most important…. You say it was two o'clock in the morning? Two o'clock in the morning?… Very well…. Thank you."
When M. Desmalions turned round, he saw Mme. Fauville standing beside him and looking at him with an expression of mad anguish. And one and the same idea occurred to the mind of all the onlookers. They were in the presence either of an absolutely innocent woman or else of an exceptional actress whose face lent itself to the most perfect simulation of innocence.
"What do you want?" she stammered. "What does this mean? Explain yourself!"
Then M. Desmalions asked simply:
"What were you doing last night between half-past eleven in the evening and two o'clock in the morning?"
It was a terrifying question at the stage which the examination had reached, a fatal question implying: