“Some one must have done so, however.”
Clinchain struck his forehead, as though an idea had suddenly flashed across his brain.
“I can partly guess,” said he. “Some time ago Lorin went for a holiday, and got drunk with some fellows he picked up in the train. Drink brought on fighting, and he was so knocked about that he was laid up for some weeks. He had a severe knife wound in the shoulder and was much bruised.”
“Who took his place?”
“A young fellow that my groom got at a servants’ registry office.”
M. de Mussidan felt that he was on the right track, for he remembered that the man who had called on him had had the audacity to leave a card, on which was marked:
“B. MASCARIN,
“Servants’ Registry Office, “Rue Montorgueil.”
“Do you know where this place is?” asked he.
“Certainly; in the Rue du Dauphin nearly opposite to my house.”