“That is unfortunate, but the prosecution can not content itself with such an explanation. What about your last employer, M. Simpson? Who is he?”
“M. Simpson is a rich man,” replied the prisoner, rather coldly, “worth more than two hundred thousand francs, and honest besides. In Germany he traveled with a show of marionettes, and in England with a collection of phenomena to suit the tastes of that country.”
“Very well! Then this millionaire could testify in your favor; it would be easy to find him, I suppose?”
“Certainly,” responded May, emphatically. “M. Simpson would willingly do me this favor. It would not be difficult for me to find him, only it would require considerable time.”
“Why?”
“Because at the present moment he must be on his way to America. It was on account of this journey that I left his company—I detest the ocean.”
A moment previously Lecoq’s anxiety had been so intense that his heart almost stopped beating; on hearing these last words, however, he regained all his self-possession. As for the magistrate, he merely greeted the murderer’s reply with a brief but significant ejaculation.
“When I say that he is on his way,” resumed the prisoner, “I may be mistaken. He may not have started yet, though he had certainly made all his arrangements before we separated.”
“What ship was he to sail by?”
“He did not tell me.”