"I think not. The coroner will hold his inquest to-morrow. He has deferred it in the hope that some new evidence would be discovered."
"And none has been discovered?"
"I have heard of none."
"You do not even know who this stranger was?"
"Oh, yes, we have discovered that. He was a worthless fellow named
Drouet."
"A Frenchman?"
"Yes, living in an attic in the Rue de la Huchette, at Paris."
M. Armand had been gazing at me intently, but now his look relaxed, and I fancied that he drew a deep breath as a man might do when relieved of a burden. At the back of my brain a vague and shadowy suspicion began to form—a suspicion that perhaps M. Armand knew more of this affair than he had as yet acknowledged.
"You did not, by any chance, know him?" I asked carelessly.
"No, I think not. But there is one thing I do not understand, Mr. Lester, and you will pardon me if I am indiscreet. But I do not understand what this Drouet, as you call him, was doing in the house of Mr. Vantine."