“Yes, sir; a fact that is apparently very trivial, though, in truth, it is of importance that—”
“Very well!” interrupted the magistrate. “You will explain it to me by and by. First of all, I must summarily examine the prisoners. A mere matter of form for to-day. Wait for me here.”
Although the magistrate promised to make haste, Lecoq expected that at least an hour would elapse before he reappeared. In this he was mistaken. Twenty minutes later, M. d’Escorval emerged from the prison without his clerk.
He was walking very fast, and instead of approaching the young detective, he called to him at some little distance. “I must return home at once,” he said, “instantly; I can not listen to you.”
“But, sir—”
“Enough! the bodies of the victims have been taken to the Morgue. Keep a sharp lookout there. Then, this evening make—well—do whatever you think best.”
“But, sir, I must—”
“To-morrow!—to-morrow, at nine o’clock, in my office in the Palais de Justice.”
Lecoq wished to insist upon a hearing, but M. d’Escorval had entered, or rather thrown himself into, his carriage, and the coachman was already whipping up the horse.
“And to think that he’s an investigating magistrate,” panted Lecoq, left spellbound on the quay. “Has he gone mad?” As he spoke, an uncharitable thought took possession of his mind. “Can it be,” he murmured, “that M. d’Escorval holds the key to the mystery? Perhaps he wishes to get rid of me.”