"Let us see," exclaimed the man, thrusting the girl aside and entering the room. He was followed by two of his men and the concierge. A rear-guard had detained a curious assortment of half-dressed people on the stairs.
The eyes of the agents fell upon the young man with a pipe simultaneously. Monsieur Benoit saw him also, and flashed an indignant look at the girl. He had concluded that she had found means to conceal her visitor.
"Ah! Monsieur Lerouge," began the sous-brigadier.
"Bah! you fools!" sneered Mlle. Fouchette, "can't you see that it is not Monsieur Lerouge?"
"There! no more lies, mademoiselle. Your name, monsieur?"
"Jean Marot."
"Oh! so it is Jean Marot?" said the officer, mockingly, while he glanced alternately at Mlle. Fouchette, at M. Benoit, and at his men. "Very well,—I'll take you as Jean Marot, then," he angrily added.
"Nevertheless," said Jean, now amused at police expense, "I am not Lerouge. There is said to be some resemblance between us, that is all."
The face of M. Benoit was that of a positive man suddenly overwhelmed with evidence of his own stupidity. Mlle. Fouchette laughed outright. The sous-brigadier frowned. One of his men spoke up,—
"Oho! now I see——"