“Impossible, patron—impossible! Don’t you know that M. Fauvel and his cashier had keys, and they only? And they always kept these keys in their pockets.”
“On the evening of the robbery the banker left his key in the secretary.”
“Yes; but the key alone was not sufficient to open the safe; the word also must be known.”
M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“What was the word?” he asked.
“Gypsy.”
“Which is the name of the cashier’s grisette. Now keep your eyes open. The day you find a man sufficiently intimate with Prosper to be aware of all the circumstances connected with this name, and at the same time on a footing with the Fauvel family which would give him the privilege of entering M. Fauvel’s chamber, then, and not until then, will you discover the guilty party. On that day the problem will be solved.”
Self-sufficient and vain, like all famous men, M. Lecoq had never had a pupil, and never wished to have one. He worked alone, because he hated assistants, wishing to share neither the pleasures of success nor the pain of defeat.
Thus Fanferlot, who knew his patron’s character, was surprised to hear him giving advice, who heretofore had only given orders.
He was so puzzled, that in spite of his pre-occupation he could not help betraying his surprise.