“Pascal Tourelle.” The officer wrote it down, saying the while—
“I am sorry I do not recognize you, M. Tourelle. Your occupation?”
“Merchant—chiefly in steel wares.”
“You are not of Morvaix; your accent tells me that.”
“I am of Paris; my master’s affairs have brought me to this district.”
“Ah, Paris!” exclaimed the officer. “I envy you, monsieur. Married?”
“My wife rides with me,” said Pascal.
“Her name?”
“Lucette.” The officer looked up with a quick smile.
“Pardon the smile,” he said, “but the name is unusual and recalls associations for me.”