"Yes—and a man whose name was Betuny or Bethune, or something like that. But I didn't pay much attention to him—he doesn't figure in the case. He didn't even go away with the women. The very day I set out on my search, he was picked up on the streets somewhere suffering with apoplexy and taken to a hospital, so nearly dead that it was a question whether he would recover. So he's out of it. The Jourdains told me that the women had sailed for France."
"You will pardon me," said my hearer, "but in what way did you make sure that they were the women you desired?"
"By the younger one's resemblance to Miss Holladay," I answered, lying with a glibness which surprised myself. "The Jourdains maintained that a photograph of Miss Holladay was really one of their lodger."
I heard him draw a deep breath, but he kept his face under admirable control.
"Ah, yes," he said. "That was exceedingly clever. I should never have thought of that. That is worthy of Monsieur Lecoq. And so you follow them to France—but, surely, you have some more—what you call—definite address than that, Mistair Lester!"
I could feel his eyes burning out from the shadows; I was thankful for the cigarette—it helped me to preserve an indifferent countenance.
"No," I said. "It seems rather a wild-goose chase, doesn't it? But you could advise me, Mr. Martigny. Where would it be best for me to search for them?"
He did not answer for a moment, and I took advantage of the opportunity to select a second cigarette and light it. I dared not remain unoccupied; I dared not meet his eyes; I trembled to see that my hand was not wholly steady.
"That," he began slowly, at last, "seems to me a most—ah!—deeficult affair, Mistair Lester. To search for three people through all France—there seems little hope of success. Yet I should think it most likely that they have gone to Paris."
I nodded. "That was my own theory," I agreed. "But to find them in Paris, seems also impossible."