"At his house?" demanded the other in a tone of alarm.
"Yes; after all, if I catch it for waking him that won't be so bad as having him come here at ten."
The sergeant rose and stretched himself. He had entire charge of the Station and was responsible for all arrests. As a rule he felt himself equal to the task, but this time the tragedy of the Rue Monceau and the peculiar circumstances surrounding it seemed too much of a burden to bear alone.
Ought he to have arrested the individual now at the Station? Had he been sufficiently tactful? What was to be done now?
"Yes, I'm going to see the chief," he repeated, "besides, I shan't be gone long. Anything that 'he' asks for let him have, you understand?"
It was about five-thirty, and the sky threatened snow. The air was fresh and not too cold. A few milk carts were the only vehicles in the streets. Porters were busy brushing off the sidewalks. Paris was making her toilette. Sergeant Masson stopped at a small house in a quiet street and mounted to the third floor. There he hesitated. The wife of the chief was known for her sharp temper. However, there was nothing to be done but ring, and this he did in a timid manner.
In a few moments he heard the door-chain withdrawn, and a woman's voice cried:
"Who is there?"
"It is I, Madame, Sergeant Masson."
"Well, what do you want?"