“What! you—Goguet, you, an old clerk—make such a proposition! Can it be that you’re frightened?”
“Frightened! No, certainly not; but—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed superlative confidence in his own muscles; “Am I not here?”
If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his desk, that article of furniture would naturally have served as a rampart between the prisoner and himself. For purposes of convenience he usually did place himself behind it; but after Goguet’s display of fear, he would have blushed to have taken the slightest measure of self-protection. Accordingly, he went and sat down by the fireplace—as he had done a few moments previously while questioning the Widow Chupin—and then ordered his door-keeper to admit the prisoner alone. He emphasized this word “alone.”
A moment later the door was flung open with a violent jerk, and the prisoner entered, or rather precipitated himself into the room. Goguet turned pale behind his table, and Lecoq advanced a step forward, ready to spring upon the prisoner and pinion him should it be requisite. But when the latter reached the centre of the room, he paused and looked around him. “Where is the magistrate?” he inquired, in a hoarse voice.
“I am the magistrate,” replied M. Segmuller.
“No, the other one.”
“What other one?”
“The one who came to question me last evening.”
“He has met with an accident. Yesterday, after leaving you, he fell down and broke his leg.”