The gossip stopped short in his narrative, very much surprised and vexed; his questioner had vanished.
“If it should be Clameran!” thought M. Verduret; “if terror has deranged that brain, so capable of working out great crimes! Fate must have interposed——”
While thus talking to himself, he elbowed his way through the crowded court-yard of the hotel.
At the foot of the staircase he found M. Fanferlot and three peculiar-looking individuals standing together, as if waiting for someone.
“Well,” cried M. Verduret, “what is the matter?”
With laudable emulation, the four men rushed forward to report to their superior officer.
“Patron,” they all began at once.
“Silence!” said the fat man with an oath; “one at a time. Quick! what is the matter?”
“The matter is this, patron,” said Fanferlot dejectedly. “I am doomed to ill luck. You see how it is; this is the only chance I ever had of working out a beautiful case, and, paf! my criminal must go and fizzle! A regular case of bankruptcy!”
“Then it is Clameran who—”