"Well, Nibet, anything fresh?" she asked. Removing his cap and lowering his collar Nibet's crabbed visage glowered on the two women: it was the Depot warder right enough: "Bad," he growled between his teeth: "Things are hot right at the Palais!" "Things to worry about--to do with comrades committed for trial?" questioned big Ernestine. Nibet shrugged and threw a glance of disdain at the girl: "You're going silly! It's this Dollon mess-up!" The warder gave them an account of what had happened. The two women were all ears, as they followed Nibet's story of events which had thrown the whole legal world into a state of commotion: incomprehensible occurrences, which threatened to turn an ordinary murder case into one of the most mysterious and most popular of assassination dramas. Mother Toulouche and big Ernestine were well aware that Nibet knew much more than he had told them about the details of the Dollon-Vibray affair; but they dared not cross-examine the warder who was in a nasty mood--nor did the announcement of Emilet's accident add to his gaiety! "It just wanted that!" he grunted: "And those bundles of lace were to turn up this evening too!" "Who is to bring them?" asked big Ernestine. "The Sailor," declared Nibet. "And who is to receive them?" demanded Mother Toulouche. "I and the Beadle," answered Nibet in a surly tone. "Come to think of it," went on Nibet, staring hard at big Ernestine, "where _is_ that man of yours--the Beadle?" * * * * * Like someone who had been running at top speed Cranajour, who had been gone about an hour on his newspaper-buying errand, drew up panting before the dark little entry leading from the rue de Harlay to the den of Mother Toulouche. He slipped into the passage; but instead of rejoining the old storekeeper he began to mount a steep and tortuous staircase, which led up to the many floors of the house. He climbed up to the seventh story; turned the key of a shaky door, and entered an attic whose skylight window opened obliquely in the sloping roof. This poverty-stricken chamber was the domicile of the queer fellow who passed his daylight hours in the company of Mother Toulouche, hobnobbing with a hole-and-corner crew, cronies of the old receiver of stolen goods. Overheated with running, Cranajour unbuttoned his coat, opened his shirt, sprinkled his face and the upper part of his body with cold water, sponged the perspiration from his brow, and brushed the dust off his big shoes.