"You lie!" retorted the jailer.
M. Paul sprang to his feet. "Take that back," he ordered with a look of menace, and the rough man grumbled an apology. "Just the same," he muttered, "it's mighty queer how she knew it unless you told her."
"Knew what?"
The jailer eyed Coquenil searchingly. "Nom d'un chien, I guess you're straight, after all, but—how did she come to write that?" He scratched his dull head in mystification.
"I have no idea."
"See here," went on Dedet, almost appealingly, "do you believe a girl I never saw could know a thing about me that nobody knows?"
"Strange!" mused the detective. "Is it an important thing?"
"Is it? If it hadn't been about the most important thing, do you think I'd have broken a prison rule and let her see that man? Well, I guess not. But I was up against it and—I took a chance."
Coquenil thought a moment. "I don't suppose you want to tell me what these words mean that she wrote?"
"No, I don't," said the jailer dryly.