But the fate of the fugitive was already decided. While Gevrol parleyed, one of the agents--he who had peered through the shutters--had gone to the rear of the house and effected an entrance through the back door. As the murderer darted out, this man sprang upon him, seized him, and with surprising strength and agility dragged him back. The murderer tried to resist; but in vain. He had lost his strength: he tottered and fell upon the table that had momentarily protected him, murmuring loud enough for every one to hear: “Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!” This simple and decisive maneuvre on the part of the subordinate had won the victory, and at first it greatly delighted the inspector. “Good, my boy,” said he, “very good! Ah! you have a talent for your business, and you will do well if ever an opportunity--” But he checked himself; all his followers so evidently shared his enthusiasm that a feeling of jealousy overcame him. He felt his prestige diminishing, and hastened to add: “The idea had occurred to me; but I could not give the order without warning the scoundrel himself.” This remark was superfluous. All the police agents had now gathered around the murderer. They began by binding his feet and hands, and then fastened him securely to a chair. He offered no resistance. His wild excitement had given place to that gloomy prostration that follows all unnatural efforts, either of mind or body. Evidently he had abandoned himself to his fate. When Gevrol saw that the men had finished their task, he called on them to attend to the other inmates of the den, and in addition ordered the lamps to be lit for the fire was going out. The inspector began his examination with the two men lying near the fireplace. He laid his hand on their hearts, but no pulsations were to be detected. He then held the face of his watch close to their lips, but the glass remained quite clear. “Useless,” he murmured, after several trials, “useless; they are dead! They will never see morning again. Leave them in the same position until the arrival of the public prosecutor, and let us look at the other one.” The third man still breathed. He was a young fellow, wearing the uniform of a common soldier of the line. He was unarmed, and his large bluish gray cloak was partly open, revealing his bare chest. The agents lifted him very carefully--for he groaned piteously at the slightest movement--and placed him in an upright position, with his back leaning against the wall. He soon opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for something to drink. They brought him a glass of water, which he drank with evident satisfaction. He then drew a long breath, and seemed to regain some little strength. “Where are you wounded?” asked Gevrol. “In the head, there,” he responded, trying to raise one of his arms. “Oh! how I suffer.”