"You must come with us."
"Yes," said Josephine, resigned.
A few moments later, Josephine, seated in a cab between the two men, was crossing Paris. The detectives had given the address: "Boulevard du Palais."
Loupart's mistress, taken on her arrival to the ante-room adjoining the private rooms of the examining magistrates, had not much time for reflection.
To be sure, she was not guilty. Not guilty? Well, at bottom the affair of the Marseilles train made Josephine uneasy. And the story of the motor, too, the motor taken by force from unknown travellers. What knowledge had the police of these events? When questioned, was she to confess or deny?
A little old man, bald and fussy, appeared at the end of the passage and called her.
"Josephine Ramot, the private room of Justice Fuselier."
Mechanically she went forward between her two captors, who pushed her into a well-lit apartment, in the corner of which stood a big desk. A well-dressed gentleman was sitting there, writing; opposite him, in the shadow, some one stood motionless. The magistrate raised his head; his face was cold and contained, but not spiteful.
"What is your name?"
"Josephine Ramot."