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 In a few moments he heard the door-chain withdrawn, and a woman's voice cried: "Who is there?"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?" "The chief is wanted at the Station right away." At these words the door opened wide and the woman stood revealed. She was about forty, dressed in her wrapper and with her hair still in curl papers. "Louis must go to the Station?" she demanded. "Yes, Madame, an arrest has been made ..." "He must go to the Station?" she repeated in a menacing tone. Sergeant Masson retreated to the landing. He simply nodded his head. "But he _is_ there! He told me he was! Ah, I see how it is!... He's been lying again. He's been running after women ... all right, he'll pay for it when he gets home!" The door shut with a bang and the lady disappeared. "What an idiot I've been," muttered the discomfited sergeant. "I ought to have known better. Of course he's not with his wife, he's with his mistress!" Several minutes later he reached another apartment in a neighboring street. This time he had no misgivings and congratulated himself upon his professional cleverness in tracking his man down. The same performance was gone through. A ring at the bell brought an answer to the door. "Who is there?" said a man's voice. "It is I ... Sergeant Masson." The door was opened and a young man stood in the hall. He was about thirty and wore an undershirt and drawers. "Well, Sergeant!" The sergeant shrank back; he would have been glad if he could have disappeared in the walls. The chief's secretary stood before him. "I was ... was looking ..." he stammered. The secretary interrupted with a smile. "No, he's not here. In fact, we are rarely found together." Then putting a hand on the sergeant's shoulder: "As gentleman to gentleman, I count on your discretion."