“To pass under the beam,” replied the clerk. “We must make a note of your exact height.”
The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his heavy boots. The heel of the right one was worn down on the inside. It was, moreover, noticed that the prisoner wore no socks, and that his feet were coated with mud.
“You only wear boots on Sundays, then?” remarked Lecoq.
“Why do you think that?”
“By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as the ankle-bone.”
“What of that?” exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone. “Is it a crime not to have a marchioness’s feet?”
“It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events,” said the young detective slowly. “Do you think I can’t see that if the mud were picked off your feet would be white and neat? The nails have been carefully cut and polished—”
He paused. A new idea inspired by his genius for investigation had just crossed Lecoq’s mind. Pushing a chair in front of the prisoner, and spreading a newspaper over it, he said: “Will you place your foot there?”
The man did not comply with the request.
“It is useless to resist,” exclaimed the governor, “we are in force.”