The Minister of Police knew the value of speed, and since the safety of France might depend upon the horses of the Minister of Police, he did not boast when he made the statement that his horses were the swiftest in France. In five minutes’ time, after giving the order, Lavenne was seated in a closed carriage drawn by two powerful Mecklenburg horses, and the carriage was leaving the courtyard of the Hôtel de Sartines and taking its way towards the Faubourg St. Honoré. During the journey, Lavenne studied the papers given to him by his master, pages and pages of reports. One might have fancied that the matter had to do with the assassination of an emperor, rather than the poisoning of a dog. Lavenne read the whole of these papers and reports carefully, and then, folding them, placed them in his pocket. According to them, everyone possible in connection with Versailles, the Trianons, and even with Luciennes, had been questioned and examined without result. The whole thing seemed to Lavenne rather clumsy. This questioning of individuals could bring little result. To the question, “Did you poison the dog?” could come but one answer, “No.” And the poisoner was unlikely to have acted in the presence of a witness. The thing that did strike Lavenne as peculiar, was the fact that there had been no accusations; it was just the case for false accusations, yet there were none. At Versailles, having ordered the carriage to be kept in waiting, he crossed the park to the Trianons. Arrived at the Grand Trianon, he walked round to the kitchen entrance. Here there was great bustle and movement, goods arriving from tradesmen in Versailles and being received by the steward, scullions darting hither and thither, and everyone talking. In the kitchen, it was the same. Lavenne knew everyone, or at least was known by everyone, especially by Brommard, the master cook, who, magnificent in paper cap and white apron, was directing operations. “Ah, Monsieur Lavenne,” said Brommard, “and what happy chance brings you here to-day?” “Why, I had some business at the Petit Trianon, and I just walked across to see if you were alive and well. _Ma foi_! Monsieur Brommard, but you are not growing thinner these days.” Brommard heaved a sigh. “No, Monsieur Lavenne, I am not growing thinner, though if worry made a man thin, I would be a rake, what between tradesmen who do not send provisions in time and cooks who spoil them when they arrive. I have to supervise everything, and I have only two eyes instead of the two hundred that I require.” “Well, Monsieur Brommard, we all have our worries, even his Majesty, who, I fear, is in trouble over the death of his favourite hound, Atalanta.” Brommard made a motion with his hand.