“I think that my little preliminary inquiry won’t be quite lacking in interest to the examining magistrate,” he said proudly. “While we wait for him, I’ll keep guard here with you, inspector. Or no, I’ll keep guard alone. For really I don’t need any one else; and if you’d like a little sleep——” Ralph lost no time. He caught up from among the trunks three rolled-up sacks, of pretty much the same color as the blouse beneath which the prisoner was hiding her boy’s clothes. He held out one of the sacks and muttered: “Slip your legs over towards me so that I can stick this over them into their place. But move them slowly, scarcely moving at all—do you understand? Then draw away your body towards me—and then your head.” He squeezed her hand which was icy cold and repeated these instructions, for the girl did not stir. “I beg you to do as I say,” he whispered yet more urgently. “Marescal will stick at nothing. You have humiliated him; and he will take revenge on you in some way or other, since you are entirely in his hands. Move your legs towards me.” She began to obey him, moving with the tiniest movements which changed her position almost insensibly and took three or four minutes. When the movement was completed there was in front of her and a little higher than she, a gray form huddled together, presenting the same contour as she had presented, which produced a sufficient illusion of her presence to bring it about that the policeman and Marescal, if they cast a glance at her, would believe that she was still there. “Come on. Take advantage of their being turned away from you and talking, and slide towards me,” whispered Ralph. She did as he bade her; he picked her up and keeping her crouching, slipped with her noiselessly through the door. Only in the waiting room did they rise to their full height. He shot the bolt; they went out through the booking office. But scarcely were they outside the station when she half-swooned and almost sank to her knees. “I shall never be able to! Never!” she moaned. Without the least effort he hoisted her on to his shoulder and started to run towards the line of trees which marked the road to Romillaud and Auxerre. He was filled with a deep satisfaction by the knowledge that he had gripped his prey, that the murderess of Miss Bakersfield could no longer escape him, that his action had substituted itself for that of society. What would he do? At the moment he was convinced, or at any rate he assured himself that he was actuated by a keen craving for justice, and that the punishment would take the form that circumstances should dictate. Two hundred yards further on he stopped. Not because he was out of breath, but to listen and question the deep silence which was hardly broken by the rustling of the leaves and the stealthy passage of the little creatures of the night. “What is it?” asked the girl in a tone of anguish.