The police agent, who had cut off the murderer’s retreat now approached, and with a dexterity that an old surgeon might have envied, made an examination of the gaping wound which the young man had received in the back of the neck. “It is nothing,” declared the police agent, but as he spoke there was no mistaking the movement of his lower lip. It was evident that he considered the wound very dangerous, probably mortal. “It will be nothing,” affirmed Gevrol in his turn; “wounds in the head, when they do not kill at once, are cured in a month.” The wounded man smiled sadly. “I have received my death blow,” he murmured. “Nonsense!” “Oh! it is useless to say anything; I feel it, but I do not complain. I have only received my just deserts.” All the police agents turned toward the murderer on hearing these words, presuming that he would take advantage of this opportunity to repeat his protestations of innocence. But their expectations were disappointed; he did not speak, although he must certainly have heard the words. “It was that brigand, Lacheneur, who enticed me here,” continued the wounded man, in a voice that was growing fainter. “Lacheneur?” “Yes, Jean Lacheneur, a former actor, who knew me when I was rich--for I had a fortune, but I spent it all; I wished to amuse myself. He, knowing I was without a single sou in the world, came and promised me money enough to begin life over again. Fool that I was to believe him, for he brought me to die here like a dog! Oh! I will have my revenge on him!” At this thought the wounded man clenched his hands threateningly. “I will have my revenge,” he resumed. “I know much more than he believes. I will reveal everything.” But he had presumed too much upon his strength. Anger had given him a moment’s energy, but at the cost of his life which was ebbing away. When he again tried to speak, he could not. Twice did he open his lips, but only a choking cry of impotent rage escaped them. This was his last manifestation of intelligence. A bloody foam gathered upon his lips, his eyes rolled back in their sockets, his body stiffened, and he fell face downward in a terrible convulsion. “It is over,” murmured Gevrol. “Not yet,” replied the young police agent, who had shown himself so proficient; “but he can not live more than two minutes. Poor devil! he will say nothing.” The inspector of police had risen from the floor as if he had just witnessed the commonest incident in the world, and was carefully dusting the knees of his trousers. “Oh, well,” he responded, “we shall know all we need to know. This fellow is a soldier, and the number of his regiment will be given on the buttons of his cloak.” A slight smile curved the lips of the subordinate. “I think you are mistaken, General,” said he. “How--”