Monsieur Fuselier nodded.

“Well, I am sure, that with regard to this affair, there are more surprises in store for us: you’ve certainly not got the answer to the riddle – not yet!”

With that, Fandor smiled and bowed, and left the magistrate’s room. He strode from the Palais, half-smiling, half-serious... What was he going to do next?

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO : AN EXECUTION

“Not much water about, is there?”

“That’s so, old ’un... If I’d known, it’s boats I’d have taken to!”

“Bah! Your shoes are big enough. Even so, it ain’t a fit night out for man nor beast!”

“Don’t you grumble, old ’un! The more it comes down cats and dogs, the fewer stumps will be stirring out doors!... But a comrade or two of ours’ll be on the prowl, eh?”

“Right-o, old bird!... Keep a look out! Sure he’ll come this way?”

“You bet your nuts he will!... He got my bit of scrawl this morning.”

“What then?”

“Shut up! Shut up! Folks coming!”

The night was inky black. Rain fell with sudden violence, threshed and driven by icy gusts of wind. The hour was late: the rue Raffet deserted save for the two men who had ventured out into the tempestuous darkness. They advanced with difficulty, side by side, speaking low. Rough customers to deal with. Their faces were emaciated from excessive drinking: their eyes gleamed, their voices were hoarse: a brutal pair! But their movements were limber and lively: they walked with that ungainly swagger affected by the light-fingered gentry and the criminals of the Paris underbelly.

“And what did you say in your scrawl?”

“Oh, medlars! Take-ins! You know!... I didn’t put my fist to it, though!”

“Who did then?”

“You ask that?”

“I’m no oracle! If it wasn’t your fist, whose then?”

“My woman.”

“Ernestine?”

“Yes. Ernestine.”

They struggled on through the squally darkness.

Then one of the two broke the silence.

“You’re not jealous, Beadle, making your girl write letters to such folk?”

That sinister hooligan, the Beadle, burst out laughing.

“Jealous! Me! Jealous of Ernestine! You make me laugh, you really do, old Beard!”

But Beard did not share his companion’s mirth. He leaned against a palisade to take breath, while a little sheltered from the fierce onslaughts of the wind.

“I tell you what,” he said in a gruff and threatening voice: “I don’t like such dodges – like those of this evening.”

“Why so, good sir of the cud?”

“Why, because, after all, it’s a comrade!”

“But he’s betrayed us – a bastard traitor he is!”

“What do we know about it?”

The Beadle nodded; reflected.