"Dubat, shut up!"
"But, mon brigadier," persisted the man designated, "it is not the man we took that night at Le Petit Rouge,—non!"
"Ah! là, là, là!" put in Mlle. Fouchette, growing tired of this. "I know M. Lerouge and M. Marot equally well, monsieur, and this is Marot. He has been with me all the evening. We danced in the Place St. Jacques and came directly here; before that we were at the Café du Panthéon. He has not left here. And they do look alike, monsieur; so it is said."
"That is very true," muttered the concierge,—"and I have made the mistake too; though, to be sure, I know M. Lerouge but slightly and had never seen this man before, to my knowledge."
Meanwhile, the girl had made a sign to the sous-brigadier that at once attracted that consequential man's attention.
"Then, mademoiselle," he concluded, after a moment's thought, "you can give us the address of this Monsieur Lerouge?"
"Oh, yes. It is Montrouge, 7 Rue Dareau,—en quatrième."
M. Benoit gave the girl informer a vicious look, which had as much effect upon her as water might have on a duck's back.
Jean did not require a note-book and pencil to fix this street and number in his own mind. He turned to the sous-brigadier as the latter rose to take his departure,—
"Pardon, monsieur; may I ask what charge is made against Monsieur Lerouge that you thus hunt him down in the middle of the night?"