“What about Caldas, monsieur?”
This was the third time during the last fortnight that Prosper had heard this name, Caldas.
The first time it had been whispered in his ear by a respectable-looking, middle-aged man, who offered his protection one day, when passing through the police-office passage.
The second time, the judge of instruction had mentioned it in connection with Gypsy’s history.
Prosper thought over all the men he had ever been connected with, but could recall none named Caldas.
The impassable M. Verduret started and trembled at the mention of this name, but, quickly recovering himself, said:
“I promised to find him for you, and I will keep my promise. Now you must go; good-morning.”
It was twelve o’clock, and M. Verduret suddenly remembered that he was hungry. He called Mme. Alexandre, and the beaming hostess of the Archangel soon placed a tempting breakfast before Prosper and his friend.
But the savory broiled oysters and flaky biscuit failed to smooth the perplexed brow of M. Verduret.
To the eager questions and complimentary remarks of Mme. Alexandre, he answered: