"Prognathous," thought M. Ginory, as he noticed this characteristic. With a gesture he motioned M. Dantin to a chair. The man was there before the Judge who, with crossed hands, his elbows leaning on his papers, seemed ready to talk of insignificant things, while the registrar's bald head was bent over his black table as he rapidly took notes. The interview took on a grave tone, but as between two men who, meeting in a salon, speak of the morning or of the première of the evening before, and M. Ginory asked M. Dantin for some information in regard to M. Rovère. "Did you know him intimately?" "Yes, M. le Juge." "For how many years?" "For more than forty. We were comrades at a school in Bordeaux." "You are a Bordelais?" "Like Rovère, yes," Dantin replied. "Of late, have you seen M. Rovère frequently?" "I beg your pardon, M. le Juge, but what do you mean by of late?" M. Ginory believed that he had discovered in this question put by a man who was himself being interrogated--a tactic--a means of finding before replying, time for reflection. He was accustomed to these manoeuvres of the accused. "When I say of late," he replied, "I mean during the past few weeks or days which preceded the murder--if that suits you." "I saw him often, in fact, even oftener than formerly." "Why?" Jacques Dantin seemed to hesitate. "I do not know--chance. In Paris one has intimate friends, one does not see them for some months; and suddenly one sees them again, and one meets them more frequently." "Have you ever had any reason for the interruptions in your relations with M. Rovère when you ceased to see him, as you say?" "None whatever." "Was there between you any sort of rivalry, any motive for coldness?" "Any motive--any rivalry. What do you mean?" "I do not know," said the great man; "I ask you. I am questioning you." The registrar's pen ran rapidly and noiselessly over the paper, with the speed of a bird on the wing. These words, "I am questioning you," seemed to make an unexpected, disagreeable impression on Dantin, and he frowned. "When did you visit Rovère the last time?" "The last time?" "Yes. Strive to remember." "Two or three days before the murder." "It was not two or three days; it was two days exactly before the assassination." "You are right, I beg your pardon." The Examining Magistrate waited a moment, looking the man full in the eyes. It seemed to him that a slight flush passed over his hitherto pale face. "Do you suspect anyone as the murderer of Rovère?" asked M. Ginory after a moment's reflection. "No one," said Dantin. "I have tried to think of some one." "Had Rovère any enemies?" "I do not know of any." The Magistrate swung around by a detour habitual with him to Jacques Dantin's last visit to the murdered man, and begged him to be precise, and asked him if anything had especially struck him during that last interview with his friend.