All the men had turned up their trousers and were advancing slowly, picking their way as carefully as an Indian when he is stealing upon his prey. They had just passed the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers when suddenly a wild shriek rent the air. At this place, and at this hour, such a cry was so frightfully significant, that all the men paused as if by common impulse. “Did you hear that, General?” asked one of the detectives, in a low voice. “Yes, there is murder going on not far from here--but where? Silence! let us listen.” They all stood motionless, holding their breath, and anxiously listening. Soon a second cry, or rather a wild howl, resounded. “Ah!” exclaimed the inspector, “it is at the Poivriere.” This peculiar appellation “Poivriere” or “pepper-box” was derived from the term “peppered” which in French slang is applied to a man who has left his good sense at the bottom of his glass. Hence, also, the sobriquet of “pepper thieves” given to the rascals whose specialty it is to plunder helpless, inoffensive drunkards. “What!” added Gevrol to his companions, “don’t you know Mother Chupin’s drinking-shop there on the right. Run.” And, setting the example, he dashed off in the direction indicated. His men followed, and in less than a minute they reached a hovel of sinister aspect, standing alone, in a tract of waste ground. It was indeed from this den that the cries had proceeded. They were now repeated, and were immediately followed by two pistol shots. The house was hermetically closed, but through the cracks in the window-shutters, gleamed a reddish light like that of a fire. One of the police agents darted to one of these windows, and raising himself up by clinging to the shutters with his hands, endeavored to peer through the cracks, and to see what was passing within. Gevrol himself ran to the door. “Open!” he commanded, striking it heavily. No response came. But they could hear plainly enough the sound of a terrible struggle--of fierce imprecations, hollow groans, and occasionally the sobs of a woman. “Horrible!” cried the police agent, who was peering through the shutters; “it is horrible!” This exclamation decided Gevrol. “Open, in the name of the law!” he cried a third time. And no one responding, with a blow of the shoulder that was as violent as a blow from a battering-ram, he dashed open the door. Then the horror-stricken accent of the man who had been peering through the shutters was explained. The room presented such a spectacle that all the agents, and even Gevrol himself, remained for a moment rooted to the threshold, shuddering with unspeakable horror.