"Why don't you speak?"
"About what?"
"Yourself."
"Of what good is it to speak?" she asked, simply,—"monsieur knows."
This child was breaking the record. Inspector Loup contemplated her petite personality once more. Here was a rare diplomate.
"You are called Fouchette?" he said.
"Yes, mon——"
"You come from Nantes. No; you don't remember. You were picked up in the streets by the Podvins and have been living with them ever since. Fouchette is the name they gave you. It is not your real name. You are ostensibly a ragpicker, but are the consort and associate of thieves and robbers and assassins, who have used you as well as abused you. You are suspected to be a regular go-between for these and the receivers of stolen goods."
"M-monsieur!"