“But I do not know you.”
“Ah, yes; you remember seeing me this morning. It is only about a trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me with obligations if you will do me the honor to accept my arm, and step outside for a moment.”
What could Cavaillon do? He took Fanferlot’s arm, and went out with him.
The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares where foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run over by numberless vehicles dashing to and fro; there were but two or three shops, and from the corner of Rue Fontaine occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of the Rue Leonie, extended a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by a small window which lighted the carpenters’ shops behind.
It was one of those streets where you could talk at your ease, without having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fanferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.
“What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur,” began the detective, “that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning.”
Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note, and instantly put himself on his guard.
“You are mistaken,” he said, blushing to his ears.
“Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite certain of what I say.”
“I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything.”