M. Lecoq, impatient at the loss of time, tried to say something; but Laurence would not listen to him.

“But what matter?” she continued.  “I loved him, followed him, and am his:  Constancy at all hazards is the only excuse for a fault like mine.  I will do my duty.  I cannot be innocent when Hector has committed a crime; I desire to suffer half the punishment.”

She spoke with such remarkable animation that the detective despaired of calming her, when two whistles in the street struck his ear.  Tremorel was returning and there was not a moment to be lost.  He suddenly seized Laurence by the arm.

“You will tell all this to the judges, Madame,” said he, sternly.  “My orders are only for M. de Tremorel.  Here is the warrant to arrest him.”

He took out the warrant and laid it upon the table.  Laurence, by the force of her will, had become almost calm.

“You will let me speak five minutes with the Count de Tremorel, will you not?” she asked.

M. Lecoq was delighted; he had looked for this request, and expected it.

“Five minutes?  Yes,” he replied.  “But abandon all hope, Madame, of saving the prisoner; the house is watched; if you look in the court and in the street you will see my men in ambuscade.  Besides, I am going to stay here in the next room.”

The count was heard ascending the stairs.

“There’s Hector!” cried Laurence, “quick, quick! conceal yourselves!”

She added, as they were retiring, in a low tone, but not so low as to prevent the detective from hearing her: 

“Be sure, we will not try to escape.”

She let the door-curtain drop; it was time.  Hector entered.  He was paler than death, and his eyes had a fearful, wandering expression.

“We are lost!” said he, “they are pursuing us.  See, this letter which I received just now is not from the man whose signature it professes to bear; he told me so himself.  Come, let us go, let us leave this house—­”

Laurence overwhelmed him with a look full of hate and contempt, and said: 

“It is too late.”

Her countenance and voice were so strange that Tremorel, despite his distress, was struck by it, and asked: 

“What is the matter?”

“Everything is known; it is known that you killed your wife.”

“It’s false!”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Well, then, it is true,” he added, “for I loved you so—­”

“Really!  And it was for love of me that you poisoned Sauvresy?”

He saw that he was discovered, that he had been caught in a trap, that they had come, in his absence, and told Laurence all.  He did not attempt to deny anything.

“What shall I do?” cried he, “what shall I do?”

Laurence drew him to her, and muttered in a shuddering voice: 

“Save the name of Tremorel; there are pistols here.”

He recoiled, as if he had seen death itself.