Both judge and detective watched the man closely as this name was spoken, but neither saw the slightest sign of emotion.
"Martinez?" echoed the prisoner indifferently. "I never heard of him."
"Ah! You'll hear enough of him before you get through," nodded Hauteville grimly. "The law requires that a prisoner have the advantage of counsel during examination. So I ask if you will provide a lawyer?"
"No," answered the accused.
"Then the court will assign a lawyer for your defense. Ask Maître Curé to come in," he directed the clerk.
"It's quite useless," shrugged the prisoner with careless arrogance, "I will have nothing to do with Maître Curé."
"I warn you, Groener, in your own interest, to drop this offensive tone."
"Ta, ta, ta! I'll take what tone I please. And I'll answer your questions as I please or—or not at all."
At this moment the clerk returned followed by Maître Curé, a florid-faced, brisk-moving, bushy-haired man in tight frock coat, who suggested an opera impresario. He seemed amused when told that the prisoner rejected his services, and established himself comfortably in a corner of the room as an interested spectator.
Then the magistrate resumed sternly: "You were arrested, sir, this afternoon in the company of a woman. Do you know who she is?"