“Here.” The card was in order. There was no more to be said. M. Filleul turned to the other reporter: “And you, sir?” “I?” “Yes, you: what paper do you belong to?” “Why, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I write for a number of papers—all over the place—” “Your credentials?” “I haven’t any.” “Oh! How is that?” “For a newspaper to give you a card, you have to be on its regular staff.” “Well?” “Well, I am only an occasional contributor, a free-lance. I send articles to this newspaper and that. They are published or declined according to circumstances.” “In that case, what is your name? Where are your papers?” “My name would tell you nothing. As for papers, I have none.” “You have no paper of any kind to prove your profession!” “I have no profession.” “But look here, sir,” cried the magistrate, with a certain asperity, “you can’t expect to preserve your incognito after introducing yourself here by a trick and surprising the secrets of the police!” “I beg to remark, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that you asked me nothing when I came in, and that therefore I had nothing to say. Besides, it never struck me that your inquiry was secret, when everybody was admitted—including even one of the criminals!” He spoke softly, in a tone of infinite politeness. He was quite a young man, very tall, very slender and dressed without the least attempt at fashion, in a jacket and trousers both too small for him. He had a pink face like a girl’s, a broad forehead topped with close-cropped hair, and a scrubby and ill-trimmed fair beard. His bright eyes gleamed with intelligence. He seemed not in the least embarrassed and wore a pleasant smile, free from any shade of banter. M. Filleul looked at him with an aggressive air of distrust. The two gendarmes came forward. The young man exclaimed, gaily: “Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you clearly suspect me of being an accomplice. But, if that were so, would I not have slipped away at the right moment, following the example of my fellow-criminal?” “You might have hoped—” “Any hope would have been absurd. A moment’s reflection, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, will make you agree with me that, logically speaking—” M. Filleul looked him straight in the eyes and said, sharply: “No more jokes! Your name?” “Isidore Beautrelet.” “Your occupation?” “Sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly.” M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes. “What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil—” “At the Lycée Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number—” “Oh, look here,” exclaimed M. Filleul, “you’re trying to take me in! This won’t do, you know; a joke can go too far!” “I must say, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your astonishment surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson? My beard, perhaps? Set your mind at ease: my beard is false!”