It was half&ndash;past four; M. Desmalions, the Prefect of Police, was not yet back at the office. His private secretary laid on the desk a bundle of letters and reports which he had annotated for his chief, rang the bell and said to the messenger who entered by the main door:<br />&quot;Monsieur le Pr&eacute;fet has sent for a number of people to see him at five o&#39;clock. Here are their names. Show them into separate waiting&ndash;rooms, so that they can&#39;t communicate with one another, and let me have their cards when they come.&quot;<br />The messenger went out. The secretary was turning toward the small door that led to his room, when the main door opened once more and admitted a man who stopped and leaned swaying over the back of a chair.<br />&quot;Why, it&#39;s you, V&eacute;rot!&quot; said the secretary. &quot;But what&#39;s happened? What&#39;s the matter?&quot;<br />Inspector V&eacute;rot was a very stout, powerfully built man, with a big neck and shoulders and a florid complexion. He had obviously been upset by some violent excitement, for his face, streaked with red veins and usually so apoplectic, seemed almost pale.<br />&quot;Oh, nothing. Monsieur le Secr&eacute;taire!&quot; he said.<br />&quot;Yes, yes; you&#39;re not looking your usual self. You&#39;re gray in the face&hellip;. And the way you&#39;re perspiring&hellip;.&quot;