Doctor Patel's division presented an unusually animated appearance that afternoon. Not only were the patients allowed to receive visitors, but quite a number of strange doctors had spent the day going from bed to bed, note-books in hand, studying the patients and their temperature charts. The nurses hesitated to call these individuals doctors, and the patients, too, seemed aware of their true status. Whispers were hushed, and all eyes turned toward the far end of the ward. There, in a bed set slightly apart and near the house staff's quarters, lay Josephine, a prey to a racking fever and breathing with difficulty. Exactly opposite her was the bed of an old woman who had been admitted that morning. Her face had almost entirely disappeared under voluminous bandages. As the ward clock struck a quarter to three, an attendant appeared and announced: "In ten minutes visitors will be requested to leave." Two of the staff who had paced the ward since early in the day exchanged a smile. "Here's the end of the farce," remarked one; "Loupart isn't coming." "He said three; there are still thirteen minutes left," replied the other. "Well, every precaution is taken." "Precautions are of no use with men like Loupart." "Eleven minutes left." "What the devil could happen? There is no longer admission to the hospital; the visitors are leaving." "Three minutes!" "Look here, you'll end by making me think..." "Two minutes." "Well, own yourself beaten!" "One minute." Bang! Bang! Two shots from a revolver suddenly startled the silent ward. There was a moment's consternation and uproar. The patients leaped from their beds and sought refuge in the corners of the ward, while the two house surgeons and the policemen, passing as doctors, rushed in a body toward Josephine's bed. Doors slammed. People came hurrying from all quarters. Above the hubbub rose a calm voice. "What the devil! Here I am drenched! What does that mean?" The house surgeon reached the bed where the hopeless Josephine lay, white as a corpse, motionless. A large red blood stain was spreading on her sheet. Quickly the doctor uncovered the wounded woman and examined her. "Fainted, she has only fainted!" And, silencing all comments, he called: "Monsieur Juve! Monsieur Juve!" The old woman who, a few moments before, had been dozing, now quickly sprang out of bed, and, tearing off her bandages, revealed the placid features of detective Juve. "I understand everything except that I'm drenched to the bones," declared Juve, as he crossed to Josephine's bed, oblivious to the amazement his appearance caused. "That's easily explained," said the house surgeon. "The girl was lying on a rubber mattress filled with water. One of the bullets punctured it." "What damage did she receive?" "A contusion on the shoulder. The murderer aimed badly owing to her recumbent position." Juve beckoned to the officers. "Your report? You've seen nothing?" "Nothing."