Marcel listened with gloomy interest to this recital. He associated the fire with the strange fears, manifested on different occasions by Baudoin, respecting the safety of the laboratory. He heard the servant say, “Just now, there are men here whose appearance is anything but prepossessing.” The workmen also spoke vaguely about strangers. Everything was wrapped in mystery. Instinctively, Marcel felt himself enveloped in a network of threats and hatred. Was it still this secret of the General de Trémont, which brought disaster on all those who possessed it? Looking round for Baudoin, he found that he had disappeared. The fire was raging less fiercely, for the torrents of water poured on the stores had extinguished the bales of wool. The works themselves did not seem to have suffered to any considerable extent; the loss was only partial. The captain of the Ars fire brigade, a plumber by trade, came out from the rest and stood there, hot and panting, with cap in hand, before M. Graff and Cardez. “Well, gentlemen, we shall come out of this affair better than we might have expected. At present, more than two-thirds of the works are safe. We may take our breath a little. It has been warm work, indeed, the last hour!” “Yes. But for M. Marcel,” said Cardez, “we should not be speaking to you at this moment, M. Prevost.” “That was a very noble act of his,” said the captain. “Ah! neither my men nor myself had thought of doing as he did. There was courage enough in us, but we should not have thought of piercing a hole in the roof. He did not lose his head; and that was the main thing.” Just at that moment, a voice quivering with anguish, was heard, and Marcel, pale and excited, came rushing from the laboratory, exclaiming— “Uncle Graff. Come here, quick!” “What is the matter?” asked Cardez. “Stay here! My uncle only!” said the young man. Monsieur Graff immediately went up to his nephew. Baudoin was already on the threshold guarding the entrance. “Come in! _Mon Dieu_! Come in!” said Marcel, pushing the old man before him. “Baudoin, shut the door and place the key inside.” “What is the matter now?” exclaimed the old man. “Look!” Standing there on the threshold of the capharnaum, the three men looked around in bewildered astonishment. All the signs of a desperate fight had thrown the room into the utmost disorder. A curtain, half torn from the window still open on the river, was hanging from its broken pole. Jars, retorts, and alembics of every description crushed to pieces lay scattered about the floor. On the table was a large clot of blood, still wet, as though some one had there met his death. The paper everywhere was splashed over with large red spots, and the drawer of the table lay wide open before their eyes. “What has taken place here?” asked Uncle Graff, in low tones. “Look in the drawer, Uncle Graff,” said Marcel. “Try to find the formula I placed there before your eyes.” “Well!”