Juve was persuaded that M. Havard was the prime mover in his ruin, so that the friendship and devotion he bore his Chief previously to his imprisonment had been succeeded by something of rancour.
“Sir,” he replied, “you think you have been clever enough already to discover many indications of my guilt; I make no doubt you will be ingenious enough to discover many more. What I am afraid of is that you are not clever enough ever to find the proofs of my innocence.”
“Juve, you are in error in supposing I nourish any fixed prejudice against you. You know in what esteem I have held you and what friendship I have felt for you? I have deplored more than anybody the combination of circumstances that led to your arrest, and ever since then I have conducted my investigation loyally and without preconceptions. It is highly important in your own interest to answer frankly the questions I am going to ask you about your wound and your illness in the night ... now ...”
It was plain from the tone of studied moderation exhibited by M. Havard that the Head of the Criminal Bureau desired but one thing, to throw some light on the mystery that so distressed them both, and that the information M. Chaigniste had given him with regard to the prisoner’s having swallowed a strong dose of hydrate of chloral had very considerably shaken the conviction he at first professed as to Juve’s culpability. It followed that the way he put the questions he had indicated was such as little by little to bring about in the prisoner’s breast a return to feelings of trust and friendliness. Without making any definite confidences to his former Chief, Juve gave the latter a glimpse of the hopes he entertained of succeeding by way of the inside of the prison in unveiling a corner of the mystery.
The conversation was a long and evidently a satisfactory one, for on parting, M. Havard extended his hand cordially to his erstwhile fellow worker, while Juve’s face beamed with glad relief, and reawakened hope.
CHAPTER XX
A WOMAN’S SELF-SACRIFICE
The ferry-boat that plies between the bank of the lake and the Ile de Beauté on which the Restaurant Azaïs stands had not actually touched the landing-stage before M. Havard, standing up on one of the thwarts of the boat, in which indeed he was the only passenger, leapt ashore, in a paroxysm of nervous excitement.
“What am I going to find here?” thought the Chief of the Criminal Bureau, “what fresh difficulties am I to be faced with, agitated as I am, and really not knowing what to do? Then how simply grotesque the visit I paid along with the Minister of Justice to that impossible person Tom Bob—grotesque to the uttermost degree! I arrive with a companion who is to be incognito; before I have been there three minutes the man addresses him by his name! I come to charge him with crimes committed at the Grand Duchess Alexandra’s house; he has never set foot inside the place! Then, to crown all, he is rung up by Fantômas, offering him contemptuously a petty piece of revenge—by way of annoying the Department! Then presently, when we reach the prison, it is to find Juve wounded and declaring he knows no more about it than we do!”
M. Havard, so formal and precise a man, so staid and deliberate as a rule, was for the moment so enraged he entirely forgot his dignity and dashed helter skelter, running like a schoolboy, across the little terrace separating the Restaurant Azaïs from the lakeside. There were only a few diners that evening occupying the tables, and already the majority were hurrying for the ferry-boat, that was making ready, after landing the Chief on the island, to re-cross to the mainland. Only one man remained seated at a table at the farthest end of the restaurant, where he was finishing his meal. M. Havard recognized this solitary diner at once and ran up to him.
“Well?” he panted.