“Excuse me, monsieur,” broke in the policeman, before the gamekeeper had had a chance to say anything. “Actually there were some rifle traps that went off, and it was the justice of the peace who discovered the little body when he was on his way to inspect the place. . . when suddenly, bang! bang! Two shots were fired, and one of them seriously wounded the poor man in the leg!”

“Mathieu, I was mistaken,” said Marcueil. “Neither your vigilance nor that of your comrades was at fault. You will receive a reward. . . You may go.”

“You see, constable,” he added, “my lands are well enough guarded for me to have the right to be astonished to hear that a crime has been discovered on them! Just how do the French police spend their time?”

“Excuse me, monsieur,” said the policeman, “we have eight villages to look after, and there are only five of us.”

“I am not accusing you, my good fellow,” condescended Marcueil, liberally refilling his glass with rum.

“The Service is a hard job,” continued the policeman. “Ah! If I’d only known! Before I took to this uniform I was like your Mr. Mathieu, a gamekeeper over by La Celle-Saint-Cloud. There was game, in those parts! If you would like to go on a heron shoot around there, in the marshes. . .”

“I hardly have the leisure, except out of season,” said Marcueil, “and I have never troubled to get a shooting license.”

The policeman drank, smacked his lips, and winked.

“The season, and the license too, that’s up to us!” And he slapped his gaiters. “Excuse me again for bothering you about that little slut – but the Service, you understand!”

“I understand so well,” replied Marcueil, “that I have had a special staircase built in honor of such matters.”

And, motioning to the wide-eyed policeman to rise, he shone the light from his revolving desk lamp upon a sign above a door, which bore the following legend in beautiful gilded letters:

SERVICE STAIRCASE

The policeman was embarrassed, and looked about him for a place to wipe his boots before leaving.

“Don’t thank me,” said Marcueil, “it’s not you I’m honoring, but your uniform. When next you come to visit me, pray don’t come in at the wrong door. The one that leads to this staircase is in the courtyard, and bears a similar inscription. But don’t leave like that; the roads are unsafe, according to what you have just told me. You will be driven back to your station in a car.”

And Marcueil returned to the drawing room.