“Where did you eat and sleep, then?”
“In M. Simpson’s large traveling-carriage; it had been sold, but he was not to give it up until he reached the port he was to sail from.”
“What port was that?”
“I don’t know.”
At this reply Lecoq, who had less experience than the magistrate in the art of concealing one’s impressions, could not help rubbing his hands with satisfaction. The prisoner was plainly convicted of falsehood, indeed driven into a corner.
“So you have only your own word to offer in support of this story?” inquired M. Segmuller.
“Wait a moment,” said the prisoner, extending his arm as if to clutch at a still vague inspiration—“wait a moment. When I arrived in Paris I had with me a trunk containing my clothes. The linen is all marked with the first letter of my name, and besides some ordinary coats and trousers, there were a couple of costumes I used to wear when I appeared in public.”
“Well, what have you done with all these things?”
“When I arrived in Paris, I took the trunk to a hotel, close by the Northern Railway Station—”
“Go on. Tell us the name of this hotel,” said M. Segmuller, perceiving that the prisoner had stopped short, evidently embarrassed.