"I don't, Mme. Josephine." "What did they want of me?" "They didn't say." "What did your mother answer?" "Don't know. Believe she told 'em you were in your den." The occurrence cast a chill over the company. Little Paulot was given a big glass of claret, and when he had left the Flirt observed gravely: "It's the cops." "Why should they come and inquire for me?" Julie tried to console her. "Anyhow they'll not come up to your place." Josephine was greatly upset. Were they after her or Loupart? Why had they withdrawn? Would they come back? In a flash she burst out, beating her fist on the table: "Bah! I've had enough of this, not knowing what is going to happen from one moment to the next. Sooner than stay here, I'll go and find out." The Flirt suggested, with a spiteful smile. "Go ahead, my girl, they won't be far away; go and ask them what they want." "Very well," cried Josephine, "I will." And the young girl emptied her glass to give her courage. "And if you don't come back, we'll set your room to rights," cried the Flirt after her. "Good luck, try and not sleep in the jug." Josephine rushed downstairs, and then, after a moment's hesitation, turned and went down the Rue de Chartres. At first she noticed nothing unusual or suspicious. The faces of those she met were mostly familiar to her. But suddenly her heart stopped beating. Two men accosted her simultaneously, one on her right, the other on her left. Her neighbour on the right asked very softly: "Are you Josephine Ramot?" "Yes." "You must come with us." "Yes," said Josephine, resigned. A few moments later, Josephine, seated in a cab between the two men, was crossing Paris. The detectives had given the address: "Boulevard du Palais." Loupart's mistress, taken on her arrival to the ante-room adjoining the private rooms of the examining magistrates, had not much time for reflection. To be sure, she was not guilty. Not guilty? Well, at bottom the affair of the Marseilles train made Josephine uneasy. And the story of the motor, too, the motor taken by force from unknown travellers. What knowledge had the police of these events? When questioned, was she to confess or deny? A little old man, bald and fussy, appeared at the end of the passage and called her. "Josephine Ramot, the private room of Justice Fuselier." Mechanically she went forward between her two captors, who pushed her into a well-lit apartment, in the corner of which stood a big desk. A well-dressed gentleman was sitting there, writing; opposite him, in the shadow, some one stood motionless. The magistrate raised his head; his face was cold and contained, but not spiteful. "What is your name?" "Josephine Ramot." "Where were you born?" "Rue de Belleville." "What is your age?" "Twenty-two." "You live by prostitution?" Josephine coloured and, with an angry voice, cried: "No, your honour, I have a calling. I am a polisher." "Are you working now?" Josephine felt awkward.