“Where was he when you left him?”
“At Leipsic.”
“When was this?”
“Last Wednesday.”
M. Segmuller shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “So you say you were in Leipsic on Wednesday? How long have you been in Paris?”
“Since Sunday afternoon, at four o’clock.”
“It will be necessary to prove that.”
Judging by the murderer’s contracted brow it might be conjectured that he was making a strenuous effort to remember something. He cast questioning glances first toward the ceiling and then toward the floor, scratching his head and tapping his foot in evident perplexity. “How can I prove it—how?” he murmured.
The magistrate did not appear disposed to wait. “Let me assist you,” said he. “The people at the inn where you boarded while in Leipsic must remember you.”
“We did not stop at an inn.”