"Oh, yes, sir. It was 'Monsieur B. Séguin, 80 Rue du Plasson, Toulon.' Séguin, that was the name of my lodger."
"But you said he was not a Frenchman!"
"Perhaps he was a Belgian, sir. I have heard that they are sometimes dark."
Lépine threw up his hands.
"Head of a pig!" he cried, and then controlled himself. "M. Pigot," he said, "you will take this idiot to his rooms and remain in charge of him until you hear from me."
And then, as Pigot and his prisoner started down the stairs, Lépine turned to an investigation of the two rooms. Every nook, every crevice, every inch of the floor, every drawer—all these he examined with a minuteness of which only the French police are capable, but his search disclosed nothing which shed any new light on the mystery. At last, he descended the stairs and left the house.
There was still one hope, the telegram. He hastened to the post-office, inquired for the clerk of telegraphs, apologised for again disturbing him, and asked to see the telegram received for B. Séguin, 80 Rue du Plasson, the Sunday before. At the end of five minutes it was in his hands, and he read it with dismay. It had been sent from Brussels, and this is the English of its contents:
"Our sister is very ill and asks for you. Come if you would see her alive.
"Charles Séguin."