"I do not know, but there is a meeting of the bank directors, and to-day, I saw two servants carry a man in there in an invalid's chair. It was the Baron de Cheylard." "Well?" "Baron Cheylard, in his quality of ex-Senator of the Second Empire, of ex-President of the Council, an ex-Commissioner of Industrial Expositions, is Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. Grand Cross--that is to say, that he cannot be pursued only after a decision of the Council of the Order. And then, you understand--if the Bank of Hauts-Plateaux demands the presence of its Vice-president, the Baron of Cheylard, paralyzed, half dead"---- "It means that it has need of a thunderbolt?" "The Grand Cross, Monsieur. They would hesitate to deliver up to us the Grand Cross." "You are right, Bernardet. The bank must be in a bad fix. And you are a very keen observer. The mind of a literary man, Bernardet." "Oh, rather a photographic eye, Monsieur Morel. The habit of using a kodak." Thus Bernardet passed his life in Paris. Capable of amassing a fortune in some Tricoche Agency if he had wished to exploit, for his own benefit, his keen observing powers, he thought only of doing his duty, bringing up his little girls and loving his wife. Mme. Bernardet was amazed at the astonishing stories which her husband often related to her, and very proud that he was such an able man. M. Bernardet hurried toward M. Rovère's lodgings and Moniche trotted along beside him. As they neared the house they saw that a crowd had begun to collect. "It is known already," Moniche said. "Since I left they have begun"---- "If I enter there," interrupted the officer, "it is all right. You have a right to call any one you choose to your aid. But I am not a Magistrate. You must go for a Commissary of Police." "Oh, M. Bernardet," Moniche exclaimed. "You are worth more than all the Commissaries put together." "That does not make it so. A Commissary is a Commissary. Go and hunt for one." "But since you are here"---- "But I am nothing. We must have a magistrate." "You are not a magistrate, then?" "I am simply a police spy." Then he crossed the street. The neighbors had gathered about the door like a swarm of flies around a honey-comb. A rumor had spread about which brought together a crowd animated by the morbid curiosity which is aroused in some minds of the hint of a mystery, and attracted by that strange magnetism which that sinister thing, "a crime," arouses. The women talked in shrill tones, inventing strange stories and incredible theories. Some of the common people hurried up to learn the news. At the moment Bernardet came up, followed by the concierge, a coupé stopped at the door and a tall man got out, asking: "Where is M. Morel? I wish to see M. Morel." The Chief had not yet been advised, and he was not there. But the tall young man suddenly recognized Bernardet, and laid hold of him, pulling him after him through the half-open door, which Moniche hastened to shut against the crowd.