He soon decided, entered the Faubourg Montmartre, and walked up the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette so rapidly, utterly regardless of the grumbling passers-by whom he elbowed out of his way, that Fanferlot found it difficult to keep him in sight.
Reaching the Rue Chaptal, Cavaillon suddenly stopped, and entered the house numbered 39.
He had scarcely taken three steps in the narrow corridor when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and turning abruptly, found himself face to face with Fanferlot.
He recognized him at once, and turning very pale he shrank back, and looked around for means of escape.
But the detective, anticipating the attempt, barred the passage-way. Cavaillon saw that he was fairly caught.
“What do you want with me?” he asked in a voice tremulous with fright.
Fanferlot was distinguished among his confreres for his exquisite suavity and unequalled urbanity. Even with his prisoners he was the perfection of courtesy, and never was known to handcuff a man without first obsequiously apologizing for being compelled to do so.
“You will be kind enough, my dear monsieur,” he said, “to excuse the great liberty I take; but I really am under the necessity of asking you for a little information.”
“Information! From me, monsieur?”
“From you, my dear monsieur; from M. Eugene Cavaillon.”