“Now for it,” said Fandor. “This is certainly not the Point-du-Jour station!... We are passing under an archway – now we are turning again... Ah, we draw up, at last!... Not a minute too soon!”

The van did finally stop.

Again a wait. Fandor cocked both ears; he wondered who was going to enter the cell next his. Then a man approached the door of his little cell, where he was confined; inserted a key in the lock, opened, and shouted in a brutal tone:

“Out with you!... March! Quick now!”

Fandor had no choice but to obey the orders hurled at him. But no sooner had he descended the steps of the prison van than he exclaimed:

“By God! The Dépôt!”

This was not the moment to express all the surprise he felt at being landed at Police Headquarters in this fashion... All round the meat wagon the police were ranged in irregular order. They shouted to him to be quick.

“Come on with you! Hurry there!”

Fandor, followed by the costermonger, was pushed towards a little open door in the grey wall which led into a kind of office, where an old frowning man was already looking through the papers, which had been respectfully handed to him by a warder.

“So! You’ve brought only two of the birds then?” remarked the frowning official.

“Yes, superintendent.”

“Good, that will do!”

Turning to the warders, the frowning little superintendent ordered. “Take them away!... Cell 14...

Useless to rouse the whole place!”

Once more the warders pushed Fandor before them, as well as the poor costermonger: they were herded into a dark corridor onto which a row of cells opened.

The head warder opened a door.

“In with you, my merry men! You will be put through your paces tomorrow.”

As the door fell to with a resounding clang, Jérôme had inspected the place by the light of a lantern.

Empty!... No luck!... My plan has been spoiled – I shall not be able to interview Jules.

Philosophically, Jérôme Fandor was preparing to go to sleep on the plank bed which decorated one end of the cell, when the little costermonger, roused from his torpid condition, began to moan and groan.

“Oh, what a misfortune!... To think I am innocent!

Innocent as an unborn babe!... What’s to be done!... Oh, what’s to be done!”

The last thing Fandor wished to do was to start a conversation with his lamenting companion. He tapped the costermonger on the shoulder.

“Good Heavens, man, the best thing you can do is to go to sleep! Take my word for it!”

Without puzzling his brains any further over the enigmas he wished to get to the bottom of, Fandor stretched himself on his plank bed, and was soon sleeping the sleep of the innocent.

Monsieur Fuselier looked perplexed.