The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then answered, sulkily: “I may as well tell you that you need not tire yourself by questioning me. I shan’t answer any one else but the magistrate. You would like to make me cut my own throat, wouldn’t you? A very clever trick, of course, but one that won’t do for me.”
“You must see that you only aggravate your situation,” observed the governor.
“Not in the least. I am innocent; you wish to ruin me. I only defend myself. Get anything more out of me now, if you can. But you had better give me back what they took from me at the station-house. My hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous. I shall need them when I get out of this place. I want you to make a note of them on the register. Where are they?”
The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the station-house, who had found it upon the prisoner when he was placed in his custody. Lecoq now laid it upon the table.
“Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,” said he, “and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four cigars.”
An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the prisoner’s features.
“Now,” resumed the clerk, “will you answer?”
But the governor perceived the futility of further questioning; and silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner to take off his boots.
Lecoq thought the assassin’s glance wavered as he heard this order. Was it only a fancy?
“Why must I do that?” asked the culprit.