“He was so artful,” went on Block in further extenuation of his offence. “He left everything behind. His overcoat, stick, this book—his own private memorandum-book seemingly—”
“Book? Hand it me,” said the Chief, and when it came into his hands he began to turn over the leaves hurriedly.
It was a small brass-bound note-book or diary, and was full of close writing in pencil.
“I do not understand, not more than a word here and there. It is no doubt Italian. Do you know that language, M. le Juge?”
“Not perfectly, but I can read it. Allow me.”
He also turned over the pages, pausing to read a passage here and there, and nodding his head from time to time, evidently struck with the importance of the matter recorded.
Meanwhile, M. Floçon continued an angry conversation with his offending subordinate.
“You will have to find him, Block, and that speedily, within twenty-four hours,—to-day, indeed,—or I will break you like a stick, and send you into the gutter. Of course, such a consummate ass as you have proved yourself would not think of searching the restaurant or the immediate neighbourhood, or of making inquiries as to whether he had been seen, or as to which way he had gone?”
“Pardon me, monsieur is too hard on me. I have been unfortunate, a victim to circumstances, still I believe I know my duty. Yes, I made inquiries, and, what is more, I heard of him.”
“Where? how?” asked the Chief, gruffly, but obviously much interested.