He understood that alone, scarcely master of himself, governed only by the inspirations of inexperience, never would he have the patient perspicacity of this singular man.
Verduret continued talking to himself, as if he had absolutely forgotten Prosper’s presence:
“Then, as this package did not come from the thief, it can only come from the other person, who was near the safe at the time of the robbery, but could not prevent it, and now feels remorse. The probability of two persons assisting at the robbery, a probability suggested by the scratch, is now converted into undeniable certainty. Ergo, I was right.”
Prosper listening attentively tried hard to comprehend this monologue, which he dared not interrupt.
“Let us seek,” went on the fat man, “this second person, whose conscience pricks him, and yet who dares not reveal anything.”
He read the letter over several times, scanning the sentences, and weighing every word.
“Evidently this letter was composed by a woman,” he finally said. “Never would one man doing another man a service, and sending him money, use the word ‘succor.’ A man would have said, loan, money, or some other equivalent, but succor, never. No one but a woman, ignorant of masculine susceptibilities, would have naturally made use of this word to express the idea it represents. As to the sentence, ‘There is one heart,’ and so on, it could only have been written by a woman.”
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said Prosper: “no woman is mixed up in this affair.”
M. Verduret paid no attention to this interruption, perhaps he did not hear it; perhaps he did not care to argue the matter.
“Now, let us see if we can discover whence the printed words were taken to compose this letter.”