Police were the sort of affairs which an unscrupulously cunning man was fitted to help on; and the faithful exercise of that cunning in the service of the State was insured by the presence of Lomaque in the office.  The discarded servant was just the right sort of spy to watch the suspected master.  Thus it happened that, in the office of the Secret Police at Paris, and under the Reign of Terror, Lomaque’s old master was, nominally, his master still—­the superintendent to whom he was ceremonially accountable, in public—­the suspected man, whose slightest words and deeds he was officially set to watch, in private.

Ever sadder and darker grew the face of Lomaque as he now pondered alone over the changes and misfortunes of the past five years.  A neighboring church-clock striking the hour of seven aroused him from his meditations.  He arranged the confused mass of papers before him—­looked toward the door, as if expecting some one to enter—­then, finding himself still alone, recurred to the one special paper which had first suggested his long train of gloomy thoughts.  The few lines it contained were signed in cipher, and ran thus: 

“You are aware that your superintendent, Danville, obtained leave of absence last week to attend to some affairs of his at Lyons, and that he is not expected back just yet for a day or two.  While he is away, push on the affair of Trudaine.  Collect all the evidence, and hold yourself in readiness to act on it at a moment’s notice.  Don’t leave the office till you have heard from me again.  If you have a copy of the Private Instructions respecting Danville, which you wrote for me, send it to my house.  I wish to refresh my memory.  Your original letter is burned.”

Here the note abruptly terminated.  As he folded it up and put it in his pocket, Lomaque sighed.  This was a very rare expression of feeling with him.  He leaned back in his chair, and beat his nails impatiently on the table.  Suddenly there was a faint little tap at the room door, and eight or ten men—­evidently familiars of the new French Inquisition—­quietly entered, and ranged themselves against the wall.

Lomaque nodded to two of them.  “Picard and Magloire, go and sit down at that desk.  I shall want you after the rest are gone.”  Saying this, Lomaque handed certain sealed and docketed papers to the other men waiting in the room, who received them in silence, bowed, and went out.  Innocent spectators might have thought them clerks taking bills of lading from a merchant.  Who could have imagined that the giving and receiving of Denunciations, Arrest-orders, and Death-warrants—­the providing of its doomed human meal for the all-devouring guillotine—­could have been managed so coolly and quietly, with such unruffled calmness of official routine?

“Now,” said Lomaque, turning to the two men at the desk, as the door closed, “have you got those notes about you?” (They answered in the affirmative.) “Picard, you have the first particulars of this affair of Trudaine; so you must begin reading.  I have sent in the reports; but we may as well go over the evidence again from the commencement, to make sure that nothing has been left out.  If any corrections are to be made, now is the time to make them.  Read, Picard, and lose as little time as you possibly can.”