At last the young detective heard the stir usually preceding the distribution of the food. People were running to and fro, sabots clicked noisily in the corridors, and the keepers could be heard engaged in loud conversation. By and by the prison bell began to toll. It was eleven o’clock, and soon afterward the prisoner commenced to sing his favorite song:
“Diogene! Sous ton manteau, libre et content—”
Before he commenced the third line the slight sound caused by the fragment of bread as it fell upon the stone floor caused him to pause abruptly.
Lecoq, at the opening in the ceiling above, was holding his breath and watching with both eyes. He did not miss one of the prisoner’s movements—not so much as the quiver of an eyelid. May looked first at the window, and then all round the cell, as if it were impossible for him to explain the arrival of this projectile. It was not until some little time had elapsed that he decided to pick it up. He held it in the hollow of his hand, and examined it with apparent curiosity. His features expressed intense surprise, and any one would have sworn that he was innocent of all complicity. Soon a smile gathered round his lips, and after a slight shrug of the shoulders, which might be interpreted, “Am I a fool?” he hastily broke the pellet in half. The sight of the paper which it contained seemed to amaze him.
“What does all this mean?” wondered Lecoq.
The prisoner had opened the note, and was examining with knitted brows the figures which were apparently destitute of all meaning to him. Then, suddenly rushing to the door of his cell, and hammering upon it with clenched fists, he cried at the top of his voice: “Here! keeper! here!”
“What do you want?” shouted a turnkey, whose footsteps Lecoq could hear hastening along the adjoining passage.
“I wish to speak to the magistrate.”
“Very well. He shall be informed.”
“Immediately, if you please. I have a revelation to make.”