“Oh!” sighed Amédée, “are you at it again?”
“For the motive of the crime is the handle by which we lay hold of the criminal. And if, as the judge will point out, is fecit cui prodest.... You’ve studied law, haven’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” said Amédée, with the beads of perspiration standing on his brow.
But at that moment the dialogue was suddenly interrupted; the restaurant page-boy came up to them holding a plate on which lay an envelope inscribed with Fleurissoire’s name. Petrified with astonishment, he opened the envelope and found inside it these words:
“You have not a moment to lose. The train for Naples starts at three o’clock. Ask Monsieur de Baraglioul to go with you to the Crédit Industriel, where he is known and where he will be able to testify to your identity.”
“There! What did I tell you?” whispered Amédée, to whom this incident was a relief rather than otherwise.
“Yes. I admit it’s very odd. How on earth do they know my name and that I have an account at the Crédit Industriel?”
“I tell you they know everything.”
“I don’t much fancy the tone of the note. The writer might have at any rate apologised for interrupting us.”
“What would have been the use? He knows well enough that everything must give way to my mission. I’ve a cheque to cash.... No, it’s impossible to tell you about it here; you can see for yourself that we are being watched.” Then, taking out his watch: “Yes, there’s only just time.”